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Inp1A’s CuristT1AN WoMANHOoOD 


Through 
Teakwood Windows 


CLOSE-UP VIEWS OF INDIA’S 
WOMANHOOD 


By 


ETHEL CODY HIGGINBOTTOM 
(Mrs. Sam Higginbotiom) 


With Introduction by 
JOHN TIMOTHY STONE, D.D. 
Pasior, Fourth Presbyterian Church, Chicago, Ill. 


New YorxK CHICAGO 
Fleming H. Revell Company 


LONDON AND EDINBURGH 


Copyright, mMcmxxvi, by 
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 


New York: 158 Fifth Avenue 
Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. 
London: 21 Paternoster Square 
Edinburgh: 99 George Street 


This little book is affectionately dedicated to my 
husband, SAM HIGGINBOTTOM. Having 
followed him half-way around the world 
to marry him, I have been follow- 
ing him in everything ever 
since; but he is worth 
the pursuing. 


Rey tay 
as Fe PAR 
a Ta 


” 





INTRODUCTION 


is “HOSE who know and have heard Ethel 
Cody Higginbottom need no word of in- 
troduction to this volume which charac- 
terizes so naturally her life of sweet and simple 
service and her work of self-denial and selfless 
consecration. 

Naturalness is one of the qualities which attract 
the world to those who love and serve, to those who 
speak and write. 

In the pages which follow, and in their illustra- 
tions which have been so vitally a part of her life 
of love and service, one feels the impress of char- 
acter, devotion and reality. 

Some of us who have been privileged not only to 
hear Sam Higginbottom and his wife as they have 
spoken so modestly of their unique work in India, 
but who have also been privileged to see them in 
their own field and in their home as well, will wel- 
come this volume not only gladly but gratefully. 

There is nothing more needed today in mission- 
ary literature than true pictures of life. The 
theory of missions has its place, no doubt, and the 
ideals and plans of missionary endeavour have in 
them wisdom and inspiration; but actual windows 
into the life of the missionary are needed if the 


7 


8 INTRODUCTION 


world is to have light and is to gain that deeper 
inspiration which leads to consecration and sacri- 
fice on the part of those at home. 

For this volume, with its insight and wisdom, 
no introduction is needed save that of one who 
asks you to read and judge for yourself. 

Peculiarly prepared for her duties as mission- 
ary, mother and friend, and being one whose 
nature like sunshine penetrates everywhere and 
diffuses and scatters sunshine, this writer will 
make her own place in the minds and hearts of 
those who read, and will win new appreciation and 
gratitude from all who have learned to honour and 
love such lives of cheerful devotion and natural 
sacrifice. 

JoHN TimotHy STONE. 


Fourth Presbyterian Church, Chicago. 


PREFACE 


FTER twenty-one years of service in India 
yay under the Presbyterian Board of Foreign 
Missions, I have gathered into this little 
volume many of the stories which I have used in 
my public speaking during our latest furlough. 
Often, after an address, people have asked 
whether certain stories were in print. To these 
stories I have added others, not told before now, 
and also some which have been published in 
periodicals. 

Most of the Hindustani terms here used are 
explained in the text. Doubtless “Purdah” already 
is sufficiently well known as the curtain or screen 
behind which the Hindu wife in the home—whom 
in this book we greet, in the phrase, “Salaam, 
Bibi,” with quite as much respect as she is ac- 
customed to receive in her own land—spends her 
wearisome and often tragic years, shut off from 
much if not all of the interesting outside world. 
As to the expression; “Teakwood Windows,” I 
know that the windows known to most Hindu 
wives are rather of carved stone than of the wood 
mentioned. But I realize also that for many 
Americans the word “teakwood” customarily calls 
up a thought of India; and it happens, too, that 


9 


10 PREFACE 


the window through which peered Lakshmi herself 
was actually of carved teak. For these reasons I 
have let the phrase creep more than once into 
what I have written. 

The life of a missionary being filled with a great 
variety of experiences, and of opportunities to 
serve, I hope readers will not judge me harshly on 
the ground that my stories and sketches are varied 
in kind and style. I do not lay claim to literary 
ability, but I do seek to persuade my readers to 
know and to love India and the Indian people as 
I have come to do. 

With a view to a clearer understanding of the 
personal background of the following stories, I 
offer a few facts of autobiographical interest. 

I was born in 1880, and brought up in Cleve- 
land, Ohio. After High School I had a year at 
Wells College, two in Kindergarten Training 
School and finally a year in the National Kinder- 
garten Training College, Chicago. 

When I was a child, my father opened a mis- 
sion in Cleveland which later became the Gospel 
Church in which my father is still an ordained 
elder. I have helped at open air services on street 
corners, played the organ in Sunday School, taught 
Sunday School, been active in Christian Endeav- 
our work, sung in the choir, taken tracts and 
invitations through the neighbourhood and into 
saloons, and knelt and prayed with sinners at the 
altar. Whatever of faith and courage I have had 


PREFACE 11 


for my work in India I acquired in my Christian 
home and the Gospel Church. 

As I was completing my year of study in Chi- 
cago and returning home, Sam Higginbottom, just 
graduated from Princeton University, came to the 
Gospel Church—to be, known and loved by its 
people and to become their foreign missionary 
under the Presbyterian Board. He was enter- 
tained in my home. He went to India that sum- 
mer, and a year later I went out, to become 
his wife. 

We were married in Bombay, October 28, 1904, 
and at once we began to share in the work of the 
Leper Asylum and the Christian Boys’ Boarding 
School in Allahabad. We came home to the 
United States in 1909 with two frail children, 
Gertrude Cody and Sam Ashton. We lived for 
two years in Columbus, Ohio, while my husband 
was studying agriculture. There Elizabeth, our 
third, and only “American,” child was born. 

Upon our return to India, while the farm bunga- 
low was being built and my husband was digging 
the well, laying out the farm, and buying cattle and 
farm equipment, I taught kindergarten in the 
Wanamaker Girls’ School in Allahabad. This 
work meant a drive of three miles with a slow 
horse every morning, my children and the baby’s 
ayah (nurse) accompanying me. 

Then my husband fell ill of typhoid fever. 
After nursing him through his illness, I took him 


12 PREFACE 


to Kashmir to recuperate. Upon our return to 
Allahabad we moved into the farm bungalow, 
which was still under construction. We camped 
out among the work people by day and among 
jackals and wild-cats at night. Soon students 
began to come. They slept under the trees usually 
but, when it rained, on the veranda near us; we 
always slept outside. As the only building on the 
farm, this bungalow, neared completion one room 
of the six went to our missionary colleague. One 
became office, study, library and reading-room for 
students and family. Classes were held on the 
veranda and in the dining-room. The dairy, with 
such equipment as we had, was in the dining-room. 
I did some of the dairy work—even after it went 
to a small building outside. Machinery was stored 
in the veranda, the bath-room became a seed 
store-room, one bed-room was used for guests and 
one for the family. 

The sick came to the back veranda, where I 
handed out medicine; but the crowd, and the kind 
of diseases which my medicines attracted, were 
objectionable, and we were happy when friends 
donated money for a dispensary—which is now 
used by the mission doctor. I often visited pa- 
tients in the villages about, and thus made many 
friends. I have helped out at times by teaching 
classes in the Agricultural Institute and the Kin- 
dergarten of the Community School, and have done 
some village evangelistic work. 


PREFACE 13 


We have been given to hospitality, and fre- 
quently have entertained angels unawares. At 
times tea is served in the garden to India friends 
who have come out from the city to see what we 
do on the farm in order to get such wonderful 
crops. Again, the tea party may be given in order 
that the other missionaries may meet some Ameri- 
can guest in our house. Sometimes the tea party, 
with games, is given on the lawn for our students 
and American faculty. Occasionally we have given 
a big tea party when all our friends, Hindu and 
Moslem, missionaries, officials and business men 
gathered in our bungalow garden. 

In response to an invitation to one such party 
a wealthy high caste Hindu gentleman who had 
been educated in England wrote: “I am glad to 
accept your invitation for tea, next Thursday, 
because I think your parties are so wonderful. 
There is no other place in Allahabad where people 
of every class can gather to sit, talk and eat to- 
gether happily.” Not only did this Hindu gentle- 
man come, but he rode in purdah (behind the 
curtain) with his wife, that she might attend the 
party. Having arrived, she sat behind a screen, in 
a corner of the garden, with other ladies. Why 
not, indeed, use our social inclinations and our 
bungalow home to the glory of God? 

Through these twenty-one years I have helped 
in the Leper Asylum and have had in my care the 
homes for children of lepers. My husband urged 


14 PREFACE 


me to do what I could in the work; and while at 
times I feared that I was being pressed into too 
much, I am grateful as I look back, for without 
the feeling that I was really needed I could not 
have been content in India. 

I am grateful for my six children. Besides all 
that they have been to us, I know that as a mother 
I have been able to approach the Indian women as 
I otherwise could not have done. India has not 
hurt the children; they are strong in body and 
broad in interest. Our only sacrifice lies in our 
Separation from them as each nears the High 
School age. 

I am very grateful that my Lord and Master 
called me to work in this part of His vineyard, and 
has let me use all that He has given me in His 
service. 


A Dea Ovi gH 
Allahabad, India. 


Note: The sketches illustrating Indian life were 
drawn by Miss Grace I. Cody. 


1G 


EVr 


IV. 


CONTENTS 


I 
“SALAAM, BIBI” 


BreHIND THE TEAKWOOD : 
Purdah Prison—In SeerehecTicondan ay 
the Crossroads—A Spirit of Evil. 


Puutwa THE BELOVED . ; 
The Gift of Mother Gane Haine Sita 
Ram’’—Miss Saheb—The Beloved. 


II 
SHALL SHE LIVE? 


On ty a Giri | 
Riverdestined—“Fresh Tentile 4 Lescon 
for the Padre—Mohan and Mango—‘‘My 
Own Daughter.” 


III 
TAINTED 


Moruers AND DauGuTers. . 
Mother Love—Mother Flight Contrast 
—Chandervatti. 


Tue Miracues. 
One Seo Thancsar ie Valiant—With- 
out Blemish. 


15 


19 


61 


95 


109 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 

Inp1a’s CHRISTIAN WoMANHOOD : ? E . Title 
LAKSHMI,) CHILDUBRIDE RMT aar toon y mii nant Meant 
LENTILS TO MARKET. : 2 ; ; : . 68 
JANTRI AND SHANTI—MOTHERLESS . : 2 . 110 
DHANESAR THE VALIANT  . i f i . oLaG 


16 


I 


“SALAAM, BIBI” 


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I 


BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 


carved teakwood window down into the 

street. Lakshmi’s husband had been away 
at college several weeks, and Lakshmi was wish- 
ing: “Oh, if only he could come home, or I could 
go for a ride on that elephant!” 

She watched the men sitting on the beast’s huge 
back as it quickly passed her window, its big bell 
tolling, telling people to get out of its way. “Why 
must Indian girls live shut in?” 

Purdah Prison. 

Lakshmi thought of her cousin, Dhanbai. Re- 
bellion sprang into her heart. Her cousin Dhan- 
bai’s father was progressive. He believed in the 
education of women. He even said he hoped the 
time would come when the purdah system would 
be abolished. With a little groan, Lakshmi cried 
out: “Why can’t the purdah system be abolished? 
Why can’t we Indian girls go out, the way white 
women do?” 

Just then a horse and carriage stopped below her 
window, and a white lady was heard talking to the 
brass merchant who had come from the shop across 


19 


i AKSHMI CHATERJI looked through “the 


20 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


the street in answer to the driver’s call. She 
handed him a brass kettle, and some conversation 
went on between them which Lakshmi could not 
hear; but suddenly the lady raised her voice, say- 
ing: “All right, I’ll call on Saturday for it. I’m 
the Padre Memsahib who lives by the river.” It 
was the wife of the missionary. 

Lakshmi momentarily was bold. Maybe this 
was the Padre Memsahib who had been teach- 
ing Dhanbai to read. She lifted her voice, and 
shouted: ‘““Memsahib!” The driver pulled in his 
horse, and the Memsahib leaned out. 

Lakshmi grew shy again, but the Memsahib had 
heard the voice from behind the carved teakwood 
window, and she called: “Salaam, bibi. Kya 
hae?” (“Greetings madam. What is it?”) 

Lakshmi’s courage came back, and the great 
longing of her heart went out in her voice: “Oh, 
Memsahib, please come and talk to me.” 

Like a flash the lady was out of her carriage 
and on the front veranda of Lakshmi’s father- 
in-law’s house. The girl ran to the stairs, but 
just as she started down she remembered that 
she had been forbidden to go down those stairs 
today. She burst into tears, as her father-in- 
law opened the door at the foot. “Daughter, 
there is a lady down here who says you have 
called her,” he said. “But you can’t come through 
this room in which your brother-in-law lies sick, 
you know.” 


BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 21 


There was anguish in Lakshmi’s voice. ‘Oh, 
father, I want to read, to learn to read like 
Dhanbai!” 

Never before had he seen Lakshmi like this. 
She always had been a proper Indian girl, shy 
and retiring before her father-in-law. He re- 
membered that Dhanbai’s father had told him 
how much happier his own household had been 
since the women folks had learned to read. But 
he shook his head: “You can’t come down today. 
Maybe she will come some day when my son is 
well.” He turned away, though almost persuaded 
by Lakshmi’s sobs. 

Sunderbai was in her husband’s room below. 
She heard it all; she, too, had wanted to learn 
to read. Quickly she ran to her husband’s side. 
She was well enough behaved to remember that 
she must not speak to her husband until he ad- 
dressed her, but the eagerness in her face spoke 
volumes. 

Her husband raised his head, hot with fever. 
He read the eager face, then looked toward the 
door which had just closed after his father, and 
said to his wife: “Call her. Ill cover my face. 
Tell my father I ordered it. You read, too.” He 
fell back on his pillow, pulling the sheet over 
his face. 

Sunderbai’s voice shook with emotion. ‘“Lak- 
shmi! Come quick!” 

The old father had shown the inherent culture 


22 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


of a true Indian gentleman of high caste in ex- 
plaining the situation to the missionary, but she 
had seen through his polite, gentle manner and 
words, his fear of the missionary lest she spoil the 
girl’s faith in their Hindu gods. He feared to 
let women folks learn, because his Vedas said: 
“Women are no better than cows, and must not 
learn.” He had, indeed, heard many Hindus ad- 
vocate: ‘Let us educate ‘the women, if we wish to 
make India take its place among the nations.” 
But most of the Hindus who argued thus had been 
educated in mission schools and colleges, and were 
almost Christians. 

The missionary was saying: “I’m very sorry 
your son is so ill. Can I do anything for him? 
If not, I’ll accept your kind invitation and call 
some other day on your daughter-in-law.” 

The door burst open, and the two girls stood 
on the threshold of the men’s sitting-room, a 
place they seldom entered. Lakshmi was smiling 
through her tears, too eager to be shy. Sunderbai 
stood severe and defiant. 

“Daughters!” The old father’s voice was full 
of anger. 

He had addressed them, so Sunderbai dare 
speak: “Father, your son commanded me to call 
her. He covered his face while she passed. He 
says to tell you to please come to him. His fever 
is high.” 

The father’s face softened; he was anxious 















































LaksuHM1, Cuitp Bride 





BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 23 


about his eldest son, who had suffered recently 
from many days of malaria. The older man hur- 
ried past the girls to his son’s bedside. 

Sunderbai’s husband was breathing hard, strug- 
gling with fever and excitement. “Father,” he 
gasped, “I am very sick. I may die. I beg of 
you, let the girls read.” He, too, was a mission 
college graduate. 

The two young women were left alone with the 
missionary. 

Though the father had not answered his son, he 
summoned a servant, and ordered cold water. He 
sponged the body of the young man, as the doctor 
had ordered. Filled with terror at his son’s de- 
pressing suggestion that he might not be long with 
them, the father calmed his wrath. 

Meanwhile, the missionary had been thinking 
of the girls in another house who were eagerly 
waiting for her to come and give them their les- 
son. But one more look at those two eager faces, 
and hearing their voices pleading, ‘““Memsahib, 
please teach us to read English, so we can know 
and read as our husbands do,” decided her. She 
remembered the day she and her husband had 
landed in India after his first furlough to America. 
He knew Hindustani, while she did not. She re- 
called how she had wailed in her heart: “Oh, he 
knows so much more than I do!” She had worked 
hard at the language, hoping to overtake him, and 
she knew what these little wives felt. 


24 #THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


In Secret. 

The lessons began that minute. But the family 
was sworn to secrecy. 

When Pervase, the second son, who was Lak- 
shmi’s husband, came home for vacation he 
talked constantly to her about the mission col- 
lege and the wonderful American professor. He 
told her about the Bible, often repeating: “If 
only the teachings of Jesus could be carried out 
in the lives of the people of India!” And then, 
longingly, he would add: ‘‘And if only you could 
go to mission school!” He wondered why she 
shyly smiled. 

Pervase had been at home only a week or two 
when, one day, he came unexpectedly upon his 
wife. She sat on a low stool before her carved 
teakwood window. In her lap lay his English 
Bible, open, where she had dropped it when he 
had surprised her. With a great longing, he 
cried: “Oh, Lakshmi!” 

Never had he called her that before. It is con- 
trary to Hindu custom for a man to call his wife 
by her first name. Observing that she seemed to 
be frightened, he laughed in embarrassment, then 
said: “Lakshmi, I heard my dearly beloved pro- 
fessor call his wife by her first name, so I’m 
going to call you by yours. To tell the whole 
truth, I wish I could eat also with you, as they 
eat together; but I know father would never per- 
mit that.” 


BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 25 


Her eyes opened wide in surprise: “Do they eat 
together? Is she not afraid she may send an evil 
spirit into his food?” 

At her innocence he laughed. “No, Lakshmi, 
they are not afraid all the time. They are not 
superstitious, as we are, with regard to evil spirits. 
They trust in Jesus, who can command evil spirits, 
and they obey Him. Oh, how I wish you could 
read that book!” He nodded toward the Bible in 
her lap. 

She picked it up, looking hard at the page and 
to his amazement read, slowly: “ ‘And Jesus said 
unto them: “I am the bread of life. He that com- 
eth to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth 
on me shall never thirst.” ’ ” 

“Lakshmi!” her husband cried. ‘Where did 
you commit that verse to memory?” 

“I did not memorize it. I am reading it.” 

He had spoken in Hindustani, but she had an- 
swered in English. He was now too astounded for 
speech. Lakshmi read on: “ ‘All that the Father 
giveth me shall come to me; and him that cometh 
to me I will in no wise cast out.’ ” 

Tears of joy stood in his eyes when in triumph 
she stopped reading. Then she told him about the 
morning on which she had called to the missionary. 
She told, too, of his brother’s pleading. Her hus- 
band interrupted her to say: “Brother, too, is a 
secret believer. There are many in India, Lak- 
shmi. I want to tell you: I am secretly a Chris- 


26 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


tian! I dare not break my father’s heart by open 
confession, but some day you and I will be Chris- 
tians—will we not?” | 

She nodded her head, saying softly: “I want it.” 
They knelt together, while Pervase voiced his first 
oral prayer. | 

A few days later the father said to his older son: 
“There is something queer about Pervase’s happi- 
ness. Can you explain it?” — 

Sorrowfully the elder son looked at his father in 
silence. Then he answered simply: ‘‘Pervase has 
enjoyed his year at college very much. Father, 
we wish you, too, had been educated in a mission 
college.” 

Devotion at the Crossroads. 

Sunderbai was a girl of extremely attractive per- 
sonality. On numerous occasions, accompanied by 
a Bible woman, I had gone to her home. Upon 
one of these visits Sunderbai produced for us a 
plate of sweets made by her own hand. 

Eating Indian sweets is for me, as a rule, a 
matter of politeness only, but it was not so when 
it came to sweets of Sunderbai’s making. Not 
only did I eat hers, I liked them; and so I 
told her. 

“Memsahib,” she replied respectfully, “it is be- 
cause my husband himself is fond of them that I 
make them. I would please him.” 

To be sure, there were servants behind the 
purdah who could have performed the task, but it 


BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 27 


was her delight to please her husband with the 
work of her own hands. 

An apt learner was Sunderbai; daily the Bible 
woman noted her excellent progress. My own 
visits always left on me a pleasant impression of 
the young wife’s intelligence and capability. 

One day the Bible woman came to me distressed 
and excited. ‘“‘Memsahib,” she exclaimed, ‘Sun- 
derbai’s husband has cholera! Today I could not 
see her.” 

Having many plans made for the day, I myself 
could not go then to Sunderbai, but I promised to 
go to her the next day. Meanwhile, my heart went 
out in prayer for her and for the sick husband to 
whom she was deeply devoted. 

That evening I was driving through the city. 
Passing a certain crossroad, I saw a large crowd 
gathered there. In the midst of the crowding people 
drums were tum-tuming their weird music, accom- 
panying women’s voices united in a strangely un- 
canny refrain. I did not catch many of the words, 
but absolute frenzy was the impression conveyed 
to my mind; something unusual was going on. As 
the crowd swayed into the street, I sounded my 
motor horn to clear a path, but the alarm fell on 
deaf ears. The people were absorbed. 

Swinging the wheel around, I threw the car 
lights upon the crowd. There, in its midst, stood 
a young woman of delicate features and refined 
appearance. In evident agony of spirit, she was 


28 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


wildly running her hands through her hair, and 
literally pulling it from her head. Her sari of fine 
muslin was torn in many places; the rent garment 
clearly proclaimed the distraught condition of the 
wearer. Both terrified and also beseeching was 
her face. At times her hands were flung out 
straight from her side, stiff to the finger tips. On 
the ground at her feet lay a heap of flowers wet 
with water, doubtless from the sacred Ganges. 
Occasionally the woman’s body swayed in rhythm 
to the beating of the insistent drums, but the eyes 
responded not; though they looked directly ahead, 
they were unseeing. 

As I continued gazing on this spectacle of agony, 
to my utter dismay I suddenly realized that the 
victim was our own Sunderbai. Sunderbai, our 
capable, intelligent Sunderbai—now no _ longer 
capable and intelligent, but torn and crazed by 
some soul catastrophe. Running the motor car to 
one side, I stopped; indeed, I was too limp to 
drive farther had I so desired, but I was deter- 
mined to ascertain what tragic fate had so com- 
pletely transformed poor Sunderbai, and to be 
helpful to her if I could. 

A Spirit of Evil. 

It was only a moment until it became evident 
that the mob actually was engaged in goading on 
this fine young woman in her insane frenzy. Many 
of the men and women were so intent on their 
diabolical work that no interference with them was 


BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 29 


possible, but a few on the outskirts of the crowd 
were prevailed on to explain what was happening. 

Sunderbai’s husband was near death. The mob 
was hoping to save his life by what it was here 
doing. It was trying to persuade an evil spirit— 
now embodied, as the people said, in Sunderbai 
herself—to take one of the roads leading away 
from her home, and to seek another victim. 

But how had an evil spirit come to enter Sun- 
derbai? And what had its being in her body to 
do with the life or death of her husband? I was 
told, on further inquiry, that these people at the 
crossroads already had succeeded in driving into 
the body of Sunderbai the evil spirit which was 
causing her husband’s illness, and that now they 
were determined to drive it from herself, so that 
she might return to her husband with no more fear 
of danger to him from the spirit’s dreadful work. 

In her terror lest death take her husband from 
her, leaving her not only to grieve for him, but 
also to endure all the distresses which are meted 
out to a Hindu widow, Sunderbai had been made 
to believe that by thus receiving the evil spirit into 
herself she might save his life. It was thus that 
she had been persuaded to go to the crossroads and 
there voluntarily enter into an abandonment of 
frenzy, by which to make the evil thing depart 
from her and lose its way on one or other of the 
branching highways. 

Certainly nothing could be done, I realized, to 


30 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


divert the young wife from her act of devotion. 
Moreover, those unseeing eyes of hers would not 
recognize me should I attempt to interfere. In- 
deed, what interference could prevail against that 
madly shouting, jeering crowd? I could do 
nothing. In despair I drove away. 

That night I was haunted by what I had seen. 
And I seemed also to hear the sad, sing-song wail 
of an Indian widow in mourning. 

Late the next afternoon the Bible woman had 
another report to make. Once more she had called 
at the home behind whose teakwood window dwelt 
Sunderbai the afflicted. ‘“Sunderbai’s husband is 
better,’ the woman announced. ‘But his mother 
bade me go away and never return. She said that 
very likely the gods had been displeased with Sun- 
derbai for reading with me. She reminded me that 
it is unbecoming for a Hindu girl to learn to read, 
and asserted that because of the girl’s offense the 
evil spirit had come to trouble both Sunderbai and 
her husband.” | 

Acting on advice of the Bible woman, I did not 
try to see Sunderbai that day, as I had promised 
to do. Instead I merely waited, in hope that the 
way might soon open for us both to go to her 
again as we had been doing. Sunderbai’s husband 
having been a student in our mission college, it 
was our hope that he had become a secret be- 
liever; indeed, it was at his request that the Bible 
woman had visited his wife. 





BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 31 


In a shop in the bazaar, some weeks later, I 
next heard of Sunderbai. There I came upon her 
husband himself. When I congratulated him on 
his recovery to health, he stepped for a moment 
close to me. ‘Memsahib,” he said quietly and 
solemnly, ‘my wife has scarcely recovered her 
reason since my severe illness. My family says 
that in my delirium at that time I spoke words 
which have made them afraid that I will become a 
Christian. They watch us closely. But I have 
seen a vision; please, Memsahib, do not abandon 
hope.” 

He hurried away, to rejoin the young dweller 
behind the purdah who had abandoned herself to 
the depths of insanity out of devotion to him. 


II 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 


P HE loo, the hot dry winds of May and 
June, shook the great peepul tree in the 
courtyard, then sighed and groaned and 

wailed, in and about the village, as might an 

American blizzard in January. Phulwa and her 

father and mother, on their beds in the room most 

shaded by the peepul tree, tried to sleep. For it 
was noon, and everyone in India seeks to sleep 
through the heat of the day. 

Only a little while before, Brij Mohan, a neigh- 
bour and a cousin, had dropped in. To the girl’s 
father he had announced: ‘“Thy kinsfolk, the fam- 
ily of Joshi, tonight are coming out from the city 
to see thee. I had finished selling my watermelons 
this morning, and was going to buy some cloth, 
when I met Joshi, and he gave me this message 
for thee.” 

The Gift of Mother Ganges. 

Although the terrible heat made Phulwa drowsy, 
yet she could not sleep. She was thinking of Joshi. 
Until five years ago the man had lived in the vil- 
lage; then, having become a prosperous merchant, 
he had decided to move nearer his bazaar stall in 


32 


oe 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 33 


the city. The girl had gone to visit him once with 
her father while they were in town shopping. She 
recalled, too, the brick house of which Joshi was 
proud, and the fancy glass chandeliers hung with 
crystal prisms surrounding an electric light which 
was the special pride of his wife, Pyari. The 
couple had one son living; him—Ram Chander— 
Phulwa remembered with terror. Once, when he 
was visiting the village, he had made a big goat 
chase her. 

Babu Lal, Phulwa’s father, began to snore, but 
she herself now was uneasily watching Sukde, her 
mother. Sukde, also strangely sleepless, was toss- 
ing about on her bed. Somehow, Sukde felt, as her 
daughter knew, there was something ominous in 
Joshi’s coming visit. 

Early that morning Phulwa and her mother, each 
taking an extra sari, had gone to the Ganges to 
bathe. 

“Phulwa,” the mother suddenly had gravely 
bidden her, “give your offering to the priest re- 
spectfully. Make your greetings to Mother 
Ganges properly. This do that you may become 
a good wife and mother, and in your next existence 
be—a man.” 

Obediently Phulwa had bowed very low to the 
priest. He, seeing her happy face, had given her 
a bunch of orange marigolds. 

As now she thought of the flowers she looked 
up at those which hung on the peepul tree. Mari- 


34 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


golds are sacred, and peepul trees are sacred; so 
Phulwa knew, without being told, that the only 
thing to do with a bunch of marigolds is to string 
them into a garland and hang them on the peepul 
tree. Fortunately, indeed, were they that the gods 
had blessed them with a peepul tree in their own 
courtyard. 

The sun had been just beginning to rise as they 
came back along the road to the village. Turning 
around and walking backwards, Phulwa had ex- 
claimed with glee: “O mother, see all the gold in 
the sky!” 

“Yes, yes, child,” her mother had replied, ‘“‘but 
remember your manners. Do not turn your back 
_ to this big peepul tree—or something may happen 
to you!” 

Phulwa accordingly had gone around it three 
times, bowing low to it—though her mother went 
but once—inwardly hoping that the tree would 
forgive her former rudeness. 

Now, lying on her bed at home, the girl was 
wondering: “Is it the evil spirit from the tree that 
is worrying mother, that she cannot sleep?” 

With this thought in mind, she got up and 
threw her jar of Ganges water which they had 
brought home with them, on the flowers and on 
the tree. ‘Then she made her bow to them, and 
with an easy conscience was soon sound asleep. 

Not so her mother. ‘Oh, they are coming to 
take my sunshine, my beloved Phulwa,” she kept 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 35 


repeating to herself. She knew that the time had 
come when Joshi and Pyari would claim the be- 
trothed wife of their son. Babu Lal’s father and 
mother had made the engagement. By Indian law 
and custom this was their right, the mother of the 
bride having no opportunity to express her own 
wish for her own child. Now both of Babu Lal’s 
parents were dead, and his one concern was to 
save and hide away a few more rupees after each 
harvest had been reaped, in order to pay Phulwa’s 
dowry. The last harvest had been good; and its 
proceeds were carefully hidden away in a vessel 
in the ground by the roots of the peepul tree. 

Sukde had scarcely dozed off to sleep, at last, 
before Babu Lal shook her. “Do not forget,” he 
said to his wife, “that you must prepare some of 
your best dishes to feed our coming guests.”’ 

As if this were a rising signal, the family rose, 
and Sukde began to prepare for her visitors, 
Phulwa helping to roll the unleavened dough into 
neat round puree cakes ready to fry. Babu Lal 
went out to buy a large watermelon from their 
neighbours, and afterward, with Narain’s help, 
he lifted a fresh supply of water from the vil- 
lage well. 

Narain was the only son, the great pride of the 
family; he had been in school in the morning. 
Now he teasingly said to Phulwa: “So your 
future mother-in-law is coming! You certainly 
will have to hide your face. Ha! they will be 


36 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


taking you away from your beloved mother soon. 
And then what will you do?” 

Phulwa needed to take but one swift glance at 
her mother’s face to know that Narain spoke the 
truth. She burst into tears. But her father loved 
her, even if she were only a girl. “Tut, tut! Why 
cry?” he asked. ‘Am I not working day and night 
to get a dowry big enough to buy you into such 
a fine family? I have no patience with your 
crying.” 

Phulwa ran to her mother and threw her arms 
around her. ‘Mother, must I leave you?” she 
begged. 

“Not yet, daughter, not yet. Do not cry; we 
must hurry to prepare the meal.” 

Work being the best remedy for sorrow, soon 
both mother and daughter were cheerful again. 
Hardly had they slipped on their best saris, made 
of cheap cotton cloth of becoming colours, when 
a neighbour ran in. ‘Here they are,” he pro- 
claimed, and he ushered in not only Joshi, Pyari 
and Ram Chander, but many neighbours also. 

Did not the whole village know what this visit 
meant? Certain men of the town—relatives and 
caste brothers—were invited to eat with Joshi and 
Babu Lal, while Pyari, Sukde and some of the 
women withdrew to a room. 

When the men had eaten, Sukde cleared away 
the dishes, and the women ate while the men, 
gathered in a circle, consulted with the village 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 37 


priest. The priest informed them that he had ex- 
amined the horoscope of both young people and 
had found that certain stars were to be in certain 
positions on a certain night; and, these stars being 
the good stars of both children, that they should 
be united at this indicated time. Not again for 
two years, he added, would the horoscope read so 
auspiciously. 

The priest’s edict being final, Babu Lal sighed 
deeply, as he thought of the burden of debt he was 
incurring, but he agreed. The priest was paid his 
fee and departed. When the women were told, 
Sukde broke into sobs, and Phulwa also began 
to weep. 

In ten days more the wedding took place. Babu 
Lal had mortgaged his prospective crops for three 
years, and the money so obtained was spent on the 
wedding. All the family savings were given as 
dowry, together with a promissory note binding 
the parents to pay a like sum before the end of 
the next two years. All the men of the village had 
agreed that it was quite fitting for Babu Lal to do 
all this. Had he not one son, for whom a dowry 
would be received? Did he not have a right to the 
cultivation of a piece of ground? Did he not own 
his house? In vain had Babu Lal protested that 
such heavy payments made more of a burden than 
he could bear—were not all Indian fathers of 
daughters so burdened? On the other hand, Joshi 
was the father of only one son, Ram Chander, and 


38 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


was making money fast; for Phulwa to marry into 
such a family was worth much. 

The wedding feasting continued for several 
days. Hired girls danced, a band played, magi- 
clans and tricksters performed, expensive perfume 
was scattered upon the guests, fireworks were set 
off, and finally the bride, weeping copiously, was 
sent with her mother-in-law in a purdah-curtained 
cart to the home of her father-in-law. 

Little Phulwa, used to the freedom of her vil- 
lage, could scarcely endure her new shut-in life. 
She saw little of Ram Chander, her husband; he 
was still in school and even his evenings he spent 
studying. He was a promising student, and his 
ambitious parents kept him at his books so con- 
stantly that he had almost no time left for Phulwa, 
his child wife. 

Even before Phulwa had reached her new home 
she had discovered that Pyari (unlike her name, 
which means “beloved”) was a cross, irritable 
woman. She had scolded Phulwa for stumbling 
as she got out of the cart; then, because the child 
pushed her sari back from her face in order the 
better to see where she wsa going, she had curtly 
asserted that the girl had no shame. 

To the young bride had been given a little room 
in the tower. In the tiny room there were, indeed, 
two windows of carved stone, but each looked out 
on dreary roofs. 

Within reach of Phulwa were no other children 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 39 


for company. Only once in a long while did she 
have the relief of going to the Ganges, and then it 
was always with carping, irritable Pyari. The 
bride-child recalled her delightful morning walks 
with her own beloved mother. Oh, how she longed 
for home! 

In time the girl’s appetite began to fail. Her 
mother-in-law told her she was a sulky child, and 
made her stay most of the time in her room, with 
only carven stone windows as companions. Some- 
times the child’s father came to see her, but he 
was quick to let her know that it would cost quite 
too much for her mother to hire a cart to come, 
too. Always, also, Phulwa saw him only in the 
presence of Pyari; and, being a very proper Hindu 
girl, she never dreamed of voluntarily speaking to 
anyone before her mother-in-law. 

On one of the days which were marked by Babu 
Lal’s coming, Pyari’s attention was distracted for 
a moment. Instantly Phulwa whispered appeal- 
ingly to her father: ‘‘Please, please take me home.” 

The man could not withstand her plea. In the 
presence of her mother-in-law, a little while later, 
he suggested that he take Phulwa home to see her 
mother. 

“Take Phulwa home!” cried Pyari, holding up 
her hands in horror. ‘Why, you would have to 
pay two rupees for a cart! And yet you say you 
cannot afford a cart to bring her mother here— 
which is the proper place to see the girl. Ha, you 


40 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


pull a great mouth about paying your dowry, but 
now you are proposing to act the spendthrift!” 

He could make no headway against such a storm 
of words. He went away. Phulwa began to cry, 
whereupon Pyari beat her and sent her to her 
room. | 
“Ram, Sita Ram.” 

That night there was no supper for Phulwa— 
which was not such a great hardship, as the girl 
could not have eaten. But she was terribly lonely. 
Next morning she was not called to take her bath 
as usual. By ten o’clock she had acquired an un- 
endurable thirst; the heat was stifling. 

Phulwa ventured down the stairs. She timor- 
ously opened the door—only to meet her irate 
mother-in-law there. The woman beat her, and 
drove her back. 

Somehow the child struggled up the stairs, but 
against the door she fell, unconscious. 

When Phulwa regained her senses welcome 
water was being poured down her throat and on 
her head. She heard the faithful old servant say: 
“She is coming to—but you might have killed her.” 

Her mother-in-law’s reply she never forgot. 
“What if I had?” Then, in biting tones: “We 
would have received still more dowry then—from 
another wife. This is only a child from the jungle, 
anyway.” 

After that day the old servant brought Phulwa 
water whenever she was kept prisoner in her room. 


CO ee a a 7 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 41 


Often, though, the child went two full days with- 
out food. The girl grew thin. Her once happy 
expression turned to one of hatred and resentment. 

Weeks passed before the father came again, but 
to her unspeakable joy her mother came, too. 
Later, in face of an awful tirade from Pyari, 
Phulwa went home with her parents. At once it 
became evident to the girl that her mother was 
not well, but it took her some days to find out 
the reason. All the proceeds from the spring 
crops had gone to pay the money-lender who had 
advanced the money for the wedding. Only a 
small amount of grain was doled out to them by 
this man, who was also, as it happened, a grain 
merchant. The unselfish mother, insisting she was 
not hungry, always urged her father and brother 
to eat the most of the food. Phulwa’s own appe- 
tite now had come back; she wanted food as she 
never before had wanted it. But she hated to feel 
that she was eating what was meant for the others. 
Consequently, when in two weeks Pyari came for 
her, she willingly returned. 

Another year passed, a year in which only once 
did Phulwa see her mother and only a few times 
her father, always at Joshi’s home. Seldom did 
the young wife, indeed, see anyone except her 
mother-in-law and the old servant. Joshi went 
away early in the morning and returned late at 
night; even when he was in the house, Pyari sent 
Phulwa to her room. Ram Chander was now in 


42 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


college and, in order that he might study better, 
he roomed in the college dormitory. After all, it 
was cheaper for him to live at college than to 
travel the four miles across the city from his home. 
On his few visits home Ram Chander’s mother 
claimed all his attention. She spoke to him so 
often of his wife only as “that sulky child,” that 
Ram Chander in time came to believe the term to 
be deserved. 

The wife’s eventful time came at last. While 
Phulwa suffered, during many hours, the midwife 
and Pyari sat by her. Suddenly the girl heard her 
own baby cry. Her heart went up to her favourite 
goddess: “O Sitaji! If it be nota son, let me die.” 

Then she heard her mother-in-law whispering to 
the midwife. “Do it, do it quickly!” she caught. 
“You promised me you would, if it was a girl. Do 
it quickly.” 

A few minutes later Phulwa found herself alone 
with the old family servant. It was such a relief 
—such a restful relief to have Pyari gone and 
that dirty, detestable midwife with her. Weakly 
Phulwa whispered to the servant: “Show me my 
child.” 

The good-hearted woman hesitated a minute, 
then frankly told the utter truth: “They have 
taken it away; it is not living.” 

Phulwa wept. Her life’s one hope was gone. 

“There, there—do not cry, child,” comforted the 
old servant. “It was only a girl,” 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 43 


The only person who came near Phulwa during 
the next ten days was the old servant. When, on 
the tenth day, the purification ceremony took 
place, Pyari poked fun at her. Her husband’s 
mother mocked her because she, too, was not the 
mother of a son. 

A few weeks later Babu Lal unexpectedly ar- 
rived. He had come to take Phulwa home. Her 
mother was very ill. 

On the way Phulwa was ready to shout for joy 
at being out of the awful prison behind purdah 
and stone window, and away from the despicable 
mother-in-law. But her heart was heavy; her 
mother was ill, possibly even dying. 

Certainly the child was not prepared for what 
she found. Her mother was wasted away; inces- 
santly she was coughing. Never had Phulwa heard 
of tuberculosis, the neighbours told the young wife 
that her mother had wasting sickness—from which 
no one ever recovered. 

In a day or two her mother was gone. 

The loss was the bitterness of hopeless death. 
Without mother, life was not worth living; the 
mother had been the one person who loved her. 
As the wasted body was taken away, the men of 
the family following it, Phulwa was wild in her 
grief. She beat her head upon the ground; she 
beat her breast; she cried aloud in agony. The 
men as they passed by her took up a chant. 
“Ram, Ram, Sita Ram—Ram, Ram, Sita Ram,” 


AA, THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


they sadly sang. They did not hear Phulwa’s wild 
cry, “Don’t take my mother from me!” Their 
chant Phulwa did not hear. 

That day no food was cooked, nor the next day; 
it was truly a house of mourning. No kind neigh- 
bours brought food for the mourners; in India 
exchanges of such kindness are not known. On 
the third day Phulwa, still sitting rocking herself 
to and fro, sobbing and mourning, heard her father 
speak. “Phulwa, we are all hungry. Cook us 
some food.” It was the first sane thought that 
had come her way; she obeyed. 

For a little while she was almost happy in her 
cooking with the old familiar brass vessels; almost 
happy, indeed, to be cooking at all, after those 
unspeakable two years in her mother-in-law’s 
home. As she worked now, Phulwa recalled how 
often her own mother had said to her: “Phulwa, 
you are a good cook.” Even in the midst of her 
still flowing tears, she proudly tossed her head, 
and laughed, as she had done then. 

That woman only once or twice had let her 
cook, and even then had refused to eat what 
Phulwa had prepared, saying it was “awful stuff.” 

Late in the afternoon the mother-in-law sud- 
denly appeared. ‘Since there is now no woman in 
your father’s house,” she said, “it is not proper for 
you to remain here. You must come home with 
me—at once.” 

In apparent obedience, Phulwa withdrew, to 


PHULWA THE BELOVED A5 


bathe and change her clothes in preparation for 
the return journey. But her mind was at work. 
Whatever came, she was determined not to return 
to that prison home. 

She beckoned her father, and pleaded with him. 
He appealed to Pyari. But the woman would not 
listen. Babu Lal’s spirit had been broken; the 
wife who always was good and always was thought- 
ful of them all had gone. Now, while he wanted 
Phulwa to stay, he felt compelled to acknowledge 
that his daughter was no longer his. He had no 
arguments to move the selfish Pyari. 

There was no other way; Phulwa knew it. 
While she was supposed to be getting ready, sud- 
denly she slipped out of the house and wildly tore 
across the fields. 

Neighbours saw her going, and gave the alarm. 
Soon a dozen men, including her own father and 
brother, were after her. She saw that the men 
were gaining on her. When she had got as far as 
the railway tracks, she was at the point of desper- 
ation. A train was coming. Running down be- 
tween the tracks, the frantic girl threw herself in 
front of the engine. 

She was badly mangled but not dead. The men, 
obeying the engineer, lifted her into the guard’s 
van. Her father was allowed to go with her. 
Miss Saheb. 

The Scotch engineer went with the girl to the 
mission hospital. He was quite upset by the oc- 


46 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


currence; moreover, he was afraid the men would 
not take her to the doctor at the mission hospital 
if not watched. 

“I have heard a good deal about these girls 
committing suicide, but I really never thought 
any of them would jump in front of my train,” 
he said at the hospital. ‘She looks pretty hope- 
less, doesn’t she?” 

They were lifting the unconscious form onto the 
operating table. Dr. Moore began her examina- 
tion. “Yes,” she replied, “I am afraid there is not 
much hope. But it is what she wanted—she 
wanted to die, poor little girl. Even so, it is not 
so bad as it would have been in Calcutta. If she 
had lived there, she would have poured kerosene 
on her clothing, and set fire to it. That is the 
way they do it there. These poor wives and 
widows! Well, we will do our best. Please leave 
your name and address in the office, and I’ll let 
you know how she gets on.” 

The engineer smiled gratefully, feeling Dr. 
Moore’s sympathy; but he replied: “I'll call, 
myself.” 

Some days later Phulwa opened her eyes. She 
saw Dr. Moore leaning over her, giving her some 
medicine. She glanced around quickly, resting 
her eyes again on the doctor, whose smile was 
all she needed to show her that she was among 
friends, 

The girl suffered much, for many bones were 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 47 


broken. The father had refused to leave the hos- 
pital for several days, but at length had returned 
to his home with his son, who had brought him 
some food. 

Day after day Phulwa listened quietly while the 
hospital Bible woman talked to her. She won- 
dered what it all meant when the American mis- 
sionary nurse, Miss King, held prayers in the ward 
in the mornings. She looked on somewhat won- 
deringly when Miss King, with the help of the 
Indian nurses, washed her bruised body. The 
Indian nurses fed her, and she never even asked 
whether they were of her own caste. The ques- 
tion had not occurred to her for several days, and, 
when it did, she thought, “‘What difference does it 
make? My food is not polluted by them, even if 
they are not of my caste.” 

One day Miss King brought Pyari in, but the 
look of anguish on Phulwa’s face told her more in 
one swift glance than she had ever read in a human 
expression before. Turning to the woman, she 
said: ““Phulwa is very weak, so I cannot let you 
stay to talk to her now. She is slowly getting 
better, and after many months may be well.”’ She 
took Pyari away. 

When she came back to Phulwa, her patient 
turned troubled eyes upon her. “Miss Saheb, am 
I getting well?” she asked. ‘But why did you not 
let me die? I don’t want to live; oh, I cannot go 
back to her house!” 


48 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


Quietly, Miss King soothed the sobbing girl, as 
' she would have soothed a baby. She gently patted 
her and talked in many sympathetic words. While 
sate so, she rather thoughtlessly assured the girl: 

“No, I will not send you back to her. I will keep 
you with me.” 

Relieved and contented, Phulwa cuddled down 
and stopped crying. But Miss King, now awak- 
ened to what she had done, was wondering just 
how she would be able to force consent from the 
girl’s family. 

A few days later Miss King was at a missionary 
home for dinner. Mr. Hart, one of the young 
American professors in the mission college, was 
present. ‘Miss King,” he said, “I hear that you 
have the wife of one of my students in your hos- 
pital. Being a good Hindu, he did not tell me her 
name, but he says she tried to commit suicide after 
the death of her mother.” 

Miss King had heard something of Phulwa’s 
history by this time. “The death of her mother, 
indeed!” she replied. “It was his own wretched 
mother’s treatment of her that made her attempt 
suicide. I promised her the other day that she 
should not go back to her mother-in-law, and she 
has been happy ever since. She is only a child 
—and a sweet child too—but what of her hus- 
band? Why did he let his mother treat her in 
that way?” 

“Of course, he is only a youngster,” rejoined 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 49 


Mr. Hart, “though a very bright chap. He takes 
great interest in Bible class, and often comes to 
talk to me in my room. He is a very likable fel- 
low. I'll talk to him about his wife, though these 
men are very reticent about speaking of their 
wives. I find that practically all the non-Christian 
men in my first-year class are married. This fel- 
low did not come to class for several days after his 
wife got hurt, and he seemed quite upset.” 

Not long afterward Mr. Hart called on Miss 
King in the hospital. During the conversation he 
announced: “I say, Miss King, I had a long talk 
with Ram Chander last night about his wife. He 
says that, as he has been living at the college and 
only occasionally goes home, he did not see much 
of his wife, and that she had never complained. 
His mother, to be sure, had complained some of 
his wife, but he did not know that the girl was 
unhappy. He says he realizes, though, that this 
Indian family system does not give a young wife 
a chance; since there have been so many suicides 
in Calcutta, by burning themselves up, the Hindu 
press is saying much on the evil of girls’ fathers 
having to pay the dowry. The Hindus are begin- 
ning to see that such a custom gives the family of 
sons all the advantages, with no reason whatever 
for treating the girl fair. He said, ‘Sir, it is one 
of the evils of Hinduism, and while much is being 
said, the custom is not being changed. It is only 
you Christians, sir, who have taught us that there 


50 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


are better ways. Christianity—the principles of 
Jesus Christ—is all that can save India.’ His 
mother tells him that his wife will be deformed, 
and that her caste has been broken by her living 
in a Christian hospital, and that she advises him 
to forget this wife and marry again. Hindus know 
no divorce, you remember; once a wife, always a 
wife, this is the rule—yes, and a slave in her hus- 
band’s home if he dies. If the wife is intolerably 
unhappy she runs away or kills herself. She can 
claim nothing from her husband.” 

Miss King could not restrain an angry ejacula- 
tion, but Mr. Hart reassuringly continued: “Ves, 
it makes me angry, too. But he wishes me to ask 
you to tell his wife that he will see to it that here- 
after she is treated right.” 

The engineer, calling again, rejoiced to learn 
that Phulwa was improving. To Miss King he 
said: “Nurse, I saw that little girl coming between 
the tracks, and then I saw the men on the side 
waving their arms, but just as I realized there 
was danger she sprang before the engine. How 
could the kiddie have had nerve to do it? She 
must have been hard driven. Well, I am glad she 
did not die, and I hope I don’t have another thing 
like that happen. You know, it makes me nervous. 
I hope you will get her to become a Christian—and 
don’t let her go back, to be abused!” 

When Phulwa’s father once more appeared, 
he said, “Miss Saheb, you people are kind to 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 51 


me. You have been very kind to my poor little 
daughter. The people of my village have pressed 
me so hard to pay up my debts that I have now 
sold my house and my cultivator’s rights and paid 
my creditors. Please, then, Miss Saheb, can’t you 
please give me some work, to earn just a little 
bread? That is all I want—and a chance to stay 
near to you kind people.” 

He was given the job of night watchman. Every 
morning thereafter he sat on the veranda near the 
ward door to listen to the Bible woman and nurse 
as they told of Jesus and His love. One day Miss 
King heard him sobbing on the veranda. Going to 
him, she heard him cry: “Oh, I’m a sinner! I 
want this Jesus to save me.” Within a few days 
his bright happy face was telling everyone he was 
a Christian. 

The Beloved. 

As soon as Phulwa had been able to think a 
little, the Bible woman began to teach her to read. 
Soon the child developed such a desire for learning 
to read that everyone who came near her was 
pressed to tell her a letter or a word. She was 
reading the second reader before she was able to 
be up. This victory gave her wonderful self- 
confidence. Then began Miss King to wonder how 
she could get the girl into school. 

One day, when Phulwa had been put out in a 
chair on the veranda, Mr. Hart again came to call 
on Miss King and the doctor. But this time with 


52 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


him was Ram Chander. Miss King took the latter 
to the veranda, where Phulwa was enjoying the 
garden. 

It was one of the lovely days which regularly 
come in mid-winter in India. No one can imagine 
bluer skies, more cheering sunshine or balmier air. 
The garden was at its best. The chrysanthemums 
were nearly all gone, only a few in pots being left 
on the veranda, but spread out in front of Phulwa 
was a gorgeous array of pansies, nasturtiums, 
candytuft, cosmos, hollyhocks and many other 
lovely flowers. Phulwa sat as if in a fairyland. 
Sometimes while she had been in bed the doctor 
had laid a flower, generally a rose, on the pillow 
beside her, and she had studied and loved it, talked 
to it and read its thoughts until it had faded. 
Other times there had been a vase of flowers by 
her side, and this she liked best; the flowers did 
not wilt before next morning, when the nurse took 
them out and brought others. 

While Phulwa sat there, drinking in the loveli- 
ness with an expression which embodied both con- 
tentment and animated joy, she heard Dr. Moore’s 
footsteps coming down the veranda. She turned 
her happy face toward the doctor who had brought 
all this to pass for her. She had not heard Ram 
Chander’s bare feet; according to the Indian cus- 
tom upon entering a home, he had slipped off his 
shoes on the veranda steps. Ram Chander caught 
one glimpse of that lovely face and gasped. But 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 53 


at seeing him, the happiness fled and fear crept 
into his young wife’s eyes. 

“Phulwa.” the doctor announced, “I will leave 
your husband here a while to talk with you.” 

Phulwa, having pulled her sari over her face, 
true to Hindu custom, was now shyly looking into 
her lap. As the doctor’s footsteps were heard en- 
tering the drawing-room Ram Chander, unlike 
most Indians, went straight to the point: “I am 
glad, very glad, that you are getting well. I did 
not know you were so unhappy—why did you not 
speak ?”’ 

She stole a timid glance up into his face, as she 
asked: “Why should I worry you? You were in 
school, and powerless to help. But that is past; 
let us not remember it. Yet please do not ask me 
to return to your home. I am learning to read 
here, and the Miss Saheb says she will send me to 
school when I am well.” 

“Ves, she has talked to me about it. And my 
professor—the finest man I ever knew—has talked 
to me. I wili speak to my father, and see if I can 
persuade him to pay your fees in a school. These 
wonderful ladies have done so much for you, we 
must not let them care for the matter of sending 
you to school also. My father has money, and I 
am his only son.” 

This time there was a slight smile in Phulwa’s 
glance as she responded: “Oh, I did not think you 
would be so kind. But your mother will never 


54 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


agree.”’ She spoke hesitatingly, but quickly, as 
she knew Dr. Moore would soon come back, and 
she wanted to make things plain. 

Ram Chander’s reply was not what she expected. 
“No, she will not. But if I can persuade my 
father, he will insist on it. Anyway, she is really 
sorry for the past.” 

For a minute there was silence, then Phulwa 
inquired: “Do you like your college?” 

Ram Chander pulled up a nearby chair and 
seating himself, told her about the mission college. 
“It is wonderful there. The professors know us 
all, and are so kind that I wish I could stay there 
forever. This is my second year, and I soon take 
my government intermediate examinations. To- 
day, as I came here with Professor Hart, he said 
he was counting on my being a credit to the col- 
lege in the examinations.” He hesitated a minute 
at Phulwa’s pleased smile, and added: “Mr. Hart 
said he was praying for me.” 

She gave a cry of joy. “Oh, that is what Miss 
King said about me! She said she was praying 
that I might get well. And is it not wonderful that 
God answers their prayers? They are not afraid 
of God, as we are. They say God is good.” 

Ram Chander was pleased, but before he could 
reply the doctor came and took him away, saying, 
“I hope you will come soon and see Phulwa 
again.” : 

He did come soon; he came several times, and 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 55 


Phulwa began to look forward to his coming. She 
was now limping around with the help of a cane 
but improving daily; so she was soon to go to 
school. Ram Chander had long ago brought the 
first payment from his father, who had agreed to 
pay the school fees, though for one year only. He 
thought it absolutely foolish that a girl should go 
to school. Yet this wonderful son deserved to be 
humoured. The mother was ill; she had not 
seemed to comprehend what they meant. In fact, 
his mother was very ill and getting worse every 
day. They had tried to bring her to the hospital, 
but she would not come. 

“Oh,” cried Phulwa, when she and her boy hus- 
band were speaking of his mother, “let us get the 
doctor to go to her.” Hurrying down the veranda, 
she soon returned to say: “The doctor will go with 
us.” Doctor Moore appeared in her phaeton, and 
asked Phulwa and Ram Chander to ride with her. 

Ram Chander could not restrain an exclamation 
when Phulwa arose to go. He even called his wife 
by her name, which he had never done before, 
being a well trained Hindu: “Oh, Phulwa, are you 
really coming?” 

She laughed gently as she replied simply: “Of 
course.” 

Dr. Moore discovered that the mother had a bad 
case of malaria and anemia. ‘Tell me what to 
do,” whispered Phulwa, “and I’ll stay a few days, 
and be nurse.” 


56 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


The doctor, in surprise, exclaimed aloud, but 
quietly explained to her about the medicines and 
the care necessary. Then, looking at Ram Chan- 
der and speaking in a louder voice, she added: 
“Some one must sponge her carefully once every 
day, and again if the fever goes high; she must 
have good milk to drink every two hours and this 
medicine, one powder each morning, noon and 
night.” 

Ram Chander took the medicine from the doc- 
tor’s hand and put it on a shelf, while the doctor 
leaned over the sick woman saying: “You do as 
your son says, and I think you will get well. I 
have given your medicine to him.” 

Pyari looked at her son. “Maybe her medicine 
will help,” she granted grudgingly. “The hakim’s 
medicine hasn’t made me quite well yet. Your 
father has paid the priest to do lots of worship, 
and to bring me Ganges water.” 

Ram Chander looked very much ashamed and, 
bending over his mother, said, “Never mind, 
mother; the doctor has good medicine.” The 
doctor smiled sympathetically at Ram Chander 
as he looked up. His face expressed relief ; he 
was thinking: “She understands our ignorant 
women.” 

While the doctor was passing out Phulwa seized 
the door, mischievously blocking Ram Chander, 
who had followed, and then called: “Good night, 
doctor, thank you”—and shut the door. 


PHULWA THE BELOVED 57 


Ram Chander gasped: “‘What, what? Phulwa, 
what?” 

“T’m the nurse,” laughingly she replied. “I 
shall stay until she is better.” 

Her husband seized her by the shoulders. 
“Phulwa, you are wonderful; you are as forgiving 
as a follower of Christ.”’ In a moment he added: 
“Phulwa, let me tell you now what I have wanted 
to tell you for several days: You are the loveliest 
woman I ever knew. Stay, please stay forever. 
No one ever shall be cruel to you again.” 

Phulwa laughed and ran away from him, but 
she stayed. 

The Bible woman goes to her every day, to read 
with her; and her father-in-law pays for the les- 
sons. Ram Chander rides a bicycle to college in 
the morning and back in the evening, just so that 
he may see that Phulwa is always kindly treated. 

But he need not fear; everyone, even her 
mother-in-law, loves Phulwa. 


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ONLY A GIRL 
T IS a girl.” The fatal words fell from the 
| lips of a low-caste woman who had come to 
the doorway of the mud house, in order to 
announce the arrival of a daughter. The young 
husband heard and shuddered. His father heard 
and, rising hurriedly, began to curse the day, the 
young mother, her mother and then his fifteen- 
year-old son, Mohan. He became so angry that 
the boy was frightened and ran to the jungle; and 
there for two hours he wandered. 
River-destined. 

At first Mohan was angry at his father, then he 
was sorry for himself. After a while he remem- 
bered the face of his girl wife, as it had looked 
when she sat in the courtyard of their home that 
morning. All the forenoon she had crouched there, 
shivering and groaning with fear and pain, and he 
had been filled with pity for her. But now, in his 
hurry to escape from his father, he had not even 
waited to hear how she was faring. She was only 
thirteen, this merry little wife of his for two years. 
Often had they played tag through the house and 
courtyard. When he had caught her she had 


61 


62 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


laughed, and had given his hand an affectionate 
squeeze. | 

He hurried home, hoping nothing had gone 
wrong with her. He remembered how each cry 
and groan coming from the room that afternoon 
had sent a stab to his heart. He remembered, too, 
how his father had shouted: “Hey, you there, 
mother of Mohan! Make that brat keep still, or 
I will come and teach her how to be quiet.” 

For an hour after that, there had been no cries, 
then had come the fatal announcement and his 
father’s rage. 

When he came near the house on his return, he 
heard his father’s irate voice. As he entered the 
courtyard, he saw the angry man kick a bundle 
on the floor in the corner room. The sun was 
setting, and, coming into the gloom, until he heard 
her cry out Mohan had not realized that that 
bundle was his own wife. Fearless now, he ran 
in front of his father with an angry outcry. 

“All right, then,” said the father. “I tell you, 
Mohan, you get rid of that girl offspring of 
yours.” 

Mohan turned to his mother. She put the palms 
of her hands together pleadingly, while she said: 
“Yes, Mohan, do your father’s bidding. He will 
never tolerate a girl baby here. Take her to the 
river, and throw her in.” 

Stooping down over the bundle of rags which 
covered the girl wife, she pulled the baby from the 


ONLY A GIRL 63 


small mother’s arms. Mohan heard one heart- 
broken, pleading sob from his wife, then silence. 

“Take it, son, take it,” the mother begged. “I 
know that it is unclean for you to touch, but we 
can’t keep it until the purification on the tenth day, 
or the neighbours would know it did not die at 
birth, and they might report us. You know, the 
Collector is getting on the hunt for killers of girl 
babies.” 

An impatient shout from his father made Mohan 
jump, then he let his mother drop the sleeping 
baby into his arms. 

Unseen, Mohan crept away from the village. 
The smoking fires and the rich spicy, buttery 
odours spoke of delicious Indian suppers being 
cooked or eaten; no one was out to see him go. 
After walking for about ten minutes, he looked 
down at the cunning, fat, red face, and his heart 
smote him. A little red hand reached out, and 
then the whole little body stretched and shivered. 
He held it tight, while he turned and looked back. 
His father was following; he hastened on. He 
took the road leading toward the river Ganges, 
and again hastily glanced back. His father was 
still following. 

“Anyway,” thought Mohan, “better for him to 
follow me than to stay there torturing the poor 
little mother.” 

On the boy walked, until he caught sight of the 
mist above the Ganges. Once more he looked back 


64 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


—to see his father yet following. As he let him- 
self down the steep bank of the river the jolting 
of his body disturbed the warm, soft bundle in his 
arms, and the baby began to cry. He held it tight, 
but it still cried, and he hurried on. When he 
reached the edge of the water he turned and looked 
back. His father was no longer in sight. 

With this realization, Mohan quickened his pace. 
He hastened on until he reached a place where the 
overhanging bank hid him from the view of any 
one on the road. Now the fast gathering darkness 
was a protection. 

The babe had cuddled down against him and 
gone to sleep; her crying would not attract notice. 
Keeping some distance from the beaten paths and 
the main road, he walked on into. the night. 
Finally, he was in sight of the Collector’s bunga- 
low. There, behind the friendly hedge, he waited. 
In time he heard the watchman, loudly coughing 
a warning to possible thieves, approach him. Still 
he waited, trembling lest the babe suddenly cry 
and attract the man’s attention—too soon. 

When, at last, the watchman was safely on the 
other side of the bungalow, Mohan quickly slipped 
through the gate and, putting the baby under a 
bush, ran away as fast as he could. Now the 
baby was crying loudly; the sound added speed 
to his flight. 

The hour was late, and he was very weary when 
he staggered up to the village. In the doorway of 


ONLY A GIRL 65 


his home sat his parents. His father began to 
chide him for not returning earlier. 

‘All right, father,” returned the boy. “But if 
we get caught in this miserable business, I will tell 
them that it was you who did it.” 

With an angry ejaculation, the father got up, 
went inside and lay down upon his bed, in a room 
at the far corner of the courtyard. 

‘Never mind, son,” the mother said soothingly, 
“there is food for you here; and I will give the 
girl some when you have finished.” 

Mohan had nearly finished his late meal when 
his mother carried in the food to the room where 
his wife lay on the mud floor. He could hear his 
mother plead with her to eat. Later he heard her 
say: “All right, I'll get the water.” 

He heard the sounds she made as she went to 
the other end of the courtyard and fumbled among 
the nearly empty, sun-baked, earthen vessels, in 
order to fill a small brass jar with water. Under 
cover of the darkness, once more his ally, he 
stepped to the door of his wife’s room. 

Stealing near, he whispered: “Don’t fret, little 
girl. She is not dead, but safe. Keep quiet, 
but eat.” 

He slid back into the dark courtyard and, lying 
down on his bed, knew from the quiet mutter of 
voices that his mother thought it was due to her 
persuasions that the girl had eaten. 

Next day, when Mohan went over into the 


66 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


bazaar to buy two pounds of potatoes, he heard 
all about a baby who had been found by the Col- 
lector’s watchman. He listened patiently while 
the gossipers told how the watchman had gone 
to the Collector’s butler. The butler had whis- 
pered the news to the Collector as he passed him 
the fish. The Collector announced the discovery 
to all those at the table, and went out. Mrs. 
Collector continued doing her duty as hostess until 
the Collector came back, followed by a low-caste 
woman carrying the baby. It had taken some 
time to find a low-caste woman. Who else would 
pick up an unknown baby before its purification? 

With a somewhat worried air, the Collector 
looked at his wife and asked: “What shall we do 
with it? It’s hungry.” 

“Goodness, how do I know? It is so long since 
Lester was a baby, I haven’t an idea on formulas 
for infant diet.” 

Then a guest ventured to suggest the missionary, 
and the Collector responded: ‘‘Fine.” 

Listening to the recital, Mohan, a little too 
eagerly, exclaimed: “Oh, so it is with the mission- 
ary, is it?” 

But no one seemed to notice Mohan’s interest, 
and soon he slipped away. 

Many people came and went at the missionary’s 
home that day. All were eager to learn what a 
white woman would do with a dark baby. Mrs. 
Missionary was very patient and, a hundred times 


ONLY A GIRL 67 


or more that day, lifted the net from the baby 
basket in the front veranda to let the inquisitive 
crowd look at the cunning baby face and two 
chubby fists—all that were visible among the pil- 
lows. Some one remarked: “No wonder it cries— 
too many clothes!” 

Mohan himself stepped to the veranda in the 
crowd. He smiled as he saw the white dress and 
pink and white blanket over the baby. “The girl 
will be happy to know about that,” he remarked 
to himself. 

But not until next day did Mohan have a chance 
to tell his wife about her baby. While his mother 
waited at the well for her chance to draw water, 
and gossiped with her neighbours, Mohan slipped 
into the courtyard of their house and found the 
girl wife sitting there in the sun. 

“She looked just as sweet as could be,” Mohan 
finished, ‘‘with her two chubby fists under her chin 
and that pretty pink thing over her. I will take 
you to see her some day.”” The happy smile which 
she gave him was compensation enough; he crept 
back into the field before his mother went in with 
her first two jars of water. 

Two months passed before Mohan could de- 
mand that the girl go with him to carry a basket 
of lentils to the market in the village bazaar. He 
explained: “I have a basket for her as well as one 
for myself,” 

The mother felt sorry for the sad little thing 


68 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


and knew that the diversion would be ues for 
her; she gave her consent. 

She watched Mohan lift the basket on to the 
girl’s head, then helped him get his own head- 
basket safely balanced, and stood gazing after 
them as they swung off down the narrow path to 
the main road. The latter was a great highway, 
macadam paved by the government, and was 
bordered on either side by lovely old mango trees 
which met high overhead. Just now the trees, in 
bloom, gave an impression of a red glow above 
them, and the fragrance was mild but sweet. The 
air was so cool and pleasant in their shade that 
the girl walked lightly in spite of her load. 

When they were safely out of sight of the vil- 
lage they halted, while Mohan helped to lift the 
girl’s basket to the high curb of the well built by 
the government by the roadside. Ordinarily he 
would not have stopped so soon to rest, but his 
mother had said: “The girl won’t be able to carry 
a basket very far.” 

Pulling the cloth covering from the top of the 
basket, he slyly slipped a quantity of dry grass 
from her basket, which was only half full of lentils, 
into the end of his turban, and tied it in. He 
would not like her to know that he was “babying” 
her by making her load light; and certainly it 
never would do to let his mother know. That was 
the reason he had lifted the basket to her head at 
first, instead of letting his mother place it there. 








Se ee, 


LENTILS TO Market 


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ONLY A GIRL 69 


The girl was sitting on the ground, laughing at 
the playful antics of two baby monkeys jumping 
in the tree above her. Mohan left her there while 
he let down his brass drinking jar into the well 
and drew water. Like all Indian travellers, he had 
not forgotten his own rope and jar. He drank, 
and presented the jar to the girl. After putting 
the palms of her hands together, and lifting them 
to her forehead in a salaam, a gracious ‘‘thank 
you,” she accepted it. She drank all she could, 
then poured some water on the rings on her toes, 
which had become hot and uncomfortable through 
her walking in the dust. She handed the jar back 
to Mohan and began to polish and adjust the 
rings, with the idea of making them comfortable 
as well as of bringing out their beauty. He 
slipped off his shoes and washed his feet, letting 
them dry and cool in the air before putting his 
shoes on again. Soon, however, their head loads 
were replaced and they resumed their way toward 
the village. 

Fresh Lentils. 

After a long walk they came to the Mission 
compound. They noticed first its gateposts and 
the macadam driveway. Next they saw the low 
white, vine-clad bungalow surrounded by shrubs 
and flower-beds. The open doors gave a cordial 
and inviting atmosphere. Only the mali carrying 
his watering-can was in sight, and he seemed not 
to notice them as Mohan and the girl came up the 


70 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


driveway in the graceful swinging run which 
Indian people assume when they carry loads on 
their heads. They went along the side of the 
bungalow to the back, where there was a long, 
low, brick building of eight small rooms, each with 
a high wall enclosing a little courtyard at the front. 
Each courtyard and room formed a home for a 
servant and his family. Mohan thought: ‘Not 
much of a house, but better than a village mud- 
house; and this arrangement allows the servants 
to stay near their work.” 

They lifted their baskets down in front of ue 
servants’ houses and sat down by them. The 
cook’s wife came up, to ask them what they had. 
When they told her the baskets contained fresh 
lentils she began to bargain with them. At her 
first offer, “eight seers for the rupee,” Mohan 
simply shook his head. 

“Seven and a half for the rupee,” pursued the 
woman. 

“Why should I grow it, much less bring it here, 
for that price?” scoffed Mohan. 

“Oh, well, then surely if I take five whole seers, 
you should let me have it for seven for the rupee,” 
again ventured the woman. 

“Five seers!” queried Mohan. ‘Why, five will 
be gone in two weeks. How many in your 
family?” 

“Two living sons and a baby girl,” replied the 
woman. “Wait until I get her—she is crying.” 


ONLY A GIRL 71 


Hurrying into the house, she returned with a tiny 
baby girl. 

The girl wife, without rising, crept close to the 
other woman and looked at the baby. 

“Oh, yes,” Mohan tried to speak calmly. “And 
how is that baby the lady missionary got from the 
Collector?” 

“She gave it to the Hindustani Padre Memsahib 
(the Indian pastor’s wife) who lives over in that 
house,” pointing to a small building standing on 
one side of the compound. “She has no children 
of her own, though longing and praying to her God 
for a child. She told the missionary lady that she 
loved that baby as if it were her own. She feeds it 
goat’s milk out of a bottle, with a rubber thing to 
suck out of. Who ever heard of such a thing? 
But the missionary lady says white babies are 
often brought up like that, even when they have 
mothers. 

“But come now, are you not going to let me have 
those lentils seven for the rupee? I will take ten 
seers if you will.” 

“T don’t grow lentils for so little,” retorted the 
boy, rising to go. 

“Tet’s see it—is it nice, clean seed, or full of 
dust and straw?” 

Mohan stooped down, unfastened the cloth over 
his basket and showed her: ‘‘Of course, it is clean. 
I don’t carry soil on my head, do I?” 

The woman dipped her hand into the seed and 


EEE Ss 


72 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


sifted it through her fingers, remarking: “Yes, 
fairly clean. Well, this is my last offer then—six 
seers for the rupee.”” Both she and Mohan knew 
that this was the price in the bazaar for last year’s 
lentils, not this year’s. 

“All right; bring your scales,’ commanded 
Mohan. “But you really should pay more, because 
this is new seed, and you don’t have to carry it 
from the bazaar.” 

The ten seers of lentils were sold from the 
girl wife’s basket, so making it twenty pounds 
lighter. 

Other servants and their families gathered and, 
learning that a good bargain had been made, took 
ten seers from Mohan’s basket. The two then 
walked to the Padre Memsahib’s and stopped out- 
side of her door. Mohan called: ‘Fresh lentils 
for sale!” 

“How will you sell them?” inquired the Padre 
Memsahib, opening the door. 

‘Just the same as I have just sold them over 
there to the servants, six seers for the rupee; and 
they are new and clean.” 

Mohan helped remove the girl’s basket from her 
head and commanded her to show the fine quality 
of their seed. 

Having examined the seed, the Padre Memsahib 
said: “Lift the basket into the courtyard, and I 
will take ten seers. Have you scales?” 

“No, but I will run and bring the™servants’ 


ONLY A GIRL 73 


scales, if you have none,” replied Mohan; as the 
Padre Memsahib nodded, he ran to get them. 

The two who were left heard a baby fretting in 
a basket in the corner, and the Padre Memsahib 
went into her kitchen to get the baby’s milk. The 
baby continuing to cry hard, the girl wife went to 
the kitchen door and asked invitingly: 

“May I hold the baby a minute?” 

The foster mother agreed. When Mohan re- 
turned, he found his wife holding her own baby. 

She lifted her eyes to Mohan; her face was 
radiant. 

“Can you hold this while the baby drinks?” 
asked the Padre Memsahib, holding out a bottle 
with a black top. 

The girl looked perplexed, but she took the bot- 
tle in her hand. The Padre Memsahib fixed it in 
the baby’s mouth, and settled the baby into the 
girl’s arms more comfortably. Maternal love 
shone from the girl’s face all the while until the 
bottle was empty and the baby once more began 
to fret. 

The Padre Memsahib and Mohan were measur- 
ing the lentils, but at the sound of the baby’s voice 
the foster mother looked over, and the girl, for- 
getting her husband’s presence and the fact that 
she ought not to speak to another in front of him, 
exclaimed: ‘“That was such a tiny, tiny bit of milk. 
Have you no more?” 

The Padre Memsahib patiently explained: “The 


74 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


baby’s stomach is such a tiny, tiny thing that to 
put more milk into it would make it ache, and the 
baby would cry hard. Now it is just fussy because 
the milk was good and she is sorry it is gone.” 

The girl said no more, partly because she re- 
membered her place as a Hindu wife and partly 
because she saw that the Padre Memsahib was a 
clever woman. When the sale of lentils was com- 
pleted they started on their way, the girl’s basket 
and heart much lighter. 

A half-hour later the remaining lentils had been 
sold to a grain merchant in the bazaar, and they 
were free to wander up the narrow street, looking 
at the wonderful display in the shops, the gir] fol- 
lowing her husband, as every proper Hindu wife 
should. The shop fronts had been removed so that 
one could see all their contents lying on the floor 
or on boxes or on shelves at the back. In one 
shop brass pots and pans shone in the sunlight. 
In the next was cloth, so displayed as to show the 
variety of colours; a few pieces hung in front 
where interested customers could feel the quality. 

Then came the shop of the oil-seller, with its 
kerosene, castor, mustard, linseed, cocoanut, sweet 
oil, clarified butter (ghee) and several kinds known 
and used only in India. Here Mohan produced 
two bottles. In one bottle he bought cocoanut oil 
for his mother’s hair (hoping the girl, also, would 
get some of it), and in the other some mustard 
oil in which their curry would be cooked. Only 


ONLY A GIRL 75 


on rare occasions could they afford to have their 
curry cooked in ghee. 

Next door to the oil man a grain merchant dis- 
played rice of several kinds, chana (a coarse field 
bean), lentils of three kinds, wheat unground, 
coarse ground, and fine ground, and several other 
grains. . 

In a shop farther on there were spices of every 
variety, almonds, raisins, peanuts and other nuts. 
Here two women were discussing the question 
whether poppy seed in pillau made it more tasty 
than coriander seed and, having decided that it 
was a matter of taste, one asked the other whether 
she put yellow saffron root in both kinds of lentil 
stew, or only in one. The girl listened eagerly, as 
if she had not often heard the same things talked 
over on the well curb, mornings, while she waited 
her turn to draw water and fill the jars. 

Mohan gave to the spice seller the list and 
quantities of spices which his mother had ordered. 
As the man was weighing and wrapping each small 
parcel in old newspaper, the sound of women’s 
voices singing came to them. They were the 
women of a wedding party, carrying on their heads 
jars of grain and bundles of clothing—the dowry 
which some well-to-do farmer was giving to the 
husband of his daughter. The singing was sweet 
and rhythmic as it came to them from across the 
fields and between the houses, but as it drew 
nearer it turned coarse and jarring. Yet to the 


76 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


girl it was intensely thrilling. She thought: 
“Some small girl, somewhere, knows that all this 
ceremony, extending over several days, is in her 
honour. An honour, indeed, is it to a girl, when 
some boy’s parents choose her to be the mother 
of his son. There must be a son for any father’s 
salvation—pity the girl who does not sometime 
bear a son!” And Mohan’s young wife shivered. 

When the shopping was done Mohan turned 
toward home, followed by the girl. 

During the next year Mohan twice found op- 
portunity to take the girl wife to see her baby. 
Before the year was over she at last had the joy 
of becoming the happy and proud mother of a son. 
Two years later another son arrived. Three years 
after that, to be sure, the midwife again an- 
nounced the arrival of a daughter, but this time, 
though. Mohan’s father grumbled a good deal, he 
let her keep her baby girl. For already there were 
two sons, and the dowry from one of them would 
pay for the dowry for the girl. Besides, Mohan 
was now stronger and bigger than his father, and 
would probably not take his command so peace- 
ably again. 

The first baby girl had now grown to be twelve 
years old, and by her adopted parents was called 
Lillavatti. She had always been simply dressed in 
gingham dresses, but they were English dresses, 
not the customary sari. She had been taught to 
read and write, and there was talk in the com- 


ONLY A GIRL 77 


munity to the effect that she was to be sent off 
to school. 

Lillavatti’s foster father had baptized a good 
many low-caste people of the neighbourhood. The 
Christians nowadays walked proudly erect, held 
meetings in their homes, and openly sang hymns; 
the whole village heard them. In fact, many of 
the villagers sent their boys to school. What was 
more, during a recent epidemic of smallpox not one 
low-caste person had taken the disease, and many 
higher caste persons were now declaring it to be 
due to their hymn singing: They sat there late 
into the night singing songs of praise to their God, 
and in consequence they kept the evil spirits away 
from them. The high-caste people did not want 
to worship that God, but they felt that the low- 
caste people ought somehow to be deprived of this 
peculiar protection. What could be done about it? 
A Lesson for the Padre. 

One evening Mohan and his father sat in the 
courtyard smoking their hooka. The mother, a 
little behind them, occasionally added something 
to the conversation. The wife was some distance 
away, in the shadow of the buildings. She could 
plainly see the others, who sat in the bright light 
of a gorgeous, almost tropical moon. It was early 
in April; the day had been stifling. Now that the 
hot wind had quieted down, and the sun’s intense 
heat had been turned off, it seemed all joy to sit 
quietly in that wonderful moonlight. The bub- 


78 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


bling of water in the cocoanut shell cooler of the 
pipe, with the low murmur of voices, added to 
the evening’s peace. The distant yowl of the 
jackals—coming nearer and nearer until the ani- 
mals were in the village, in search of refuse—did 
not jar the restfulness of those syaeter tt ttl to the 
sound from infancy. 

Some one in a nearby courtyard clapped his 
hands and hooted at the jackals. An owl in a 
nearby peepul tree, with her quiet “too-woo, too- 
woo,” started some flying foxes and bats into activ- 
ity, but the whir of their wings as they swooped 
in and out among the village roofs, now high in the 
trees and now low into the courtyards, disturbed 
no one. Muskrats ran squeaking through the 
rooms into the courtyard from one room to an- 
other, but no attention was paid to them. A wolf 
in the fields beyond emitted its blood-curdling 
yell. Mohan’s wife looked over at her children 
sleeping on their rough rope beds, and was grateful 
for the high walls that shut in their cozy courtyard. 

Suddenly the sounds of a tom-tom and cymbal, 
and of several voices in tune, broke on the night 
air. At this distance, Mohan and his wife thought 
it beautiful; Mohan would have said so, had he not 
known his father’s prejudices. The latter listened 
with the others for a few minutes; then, feeling the 
spell of it coming over him, cried out: 

“Why does not Satan ruin those people? They 
should not be allowed to control all of us in this 


ONLY A GIRL 79 


village. They should remember that they are of 
the untouchable caste, and not even make them- 
selves heard. Satan take that old villain, the 
Padre! It was he who taught them these songs 
that charm even the evil spirits. That old villain 
never offered to teach us higher caste people those 
songs, and now look at the havoc that the evil 
spirits, driven from those low-down dogs, have 
done to the other people of this village! See what 
a fine, straight man Ram Pershad is—and yet the 
spirit of smallpox got him yesterday.” 

“Yes, Ram Pershad is very sick and much 
afflicted,” interrupted Mohan. “I went there to- 
day, and told his brother Ram Lal about making 
the offering of milk to the spirit, the way you did, 
when smallpox visited me. At the same time our 
neighbour, Bechai, was there, and explained that 
waving the palm-leaves back and forth was more 
pleasing to the goddess than waving them up and 
down. His mother had the house beautifully clean, 
so I hope the goddess will be pleased with her visit, 
and be gentle with Ram Pershad.”’ 

The father made no reply for a while. He 
pulled steadily on his pipe, making the water 
bubble vociferously. 

“That Padre must be punished,” at length the 
man went on. ‘He will make too many changes 
in our customs if he does not get that girl married. 
Why, I hear he is even going to send her away to 
school. Ha! You know well enough that that is 


80 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


your girl!” In consternation, Mohan held his 
breath, but he made no denial. 

“You go there tomorrow, and tell them to let 
that girl get married—do you hear?” 

“Why, father,”’ Mohan had somewhat collected 
himself. “That is no girl of mine.” He knew 
adoption papers had been taken out, so he was 
telling the truth. ‘Did you not follow me to the 
Ganges when I went there, at your command, to 
throw my girl in? Would that I dared claim to 
be as clever as the father of that girl, who left her 
on the Collector’s compound.” 

The father was not deceived, but he kept quiet, 
for the singing had now ceased. 

“The Christians are probably now praying,” 
thought Mohan, “as I have seen them do over on 
the mission compound.” 


The oxen began to tread out the last floor, full 
of wheat and straw, at daybreak the next morning. 
Mohan followed the animals in their weary round, 
talking to them as he urged them on. 

“T will take a load of the chaff. on my head to 
sell in the bazaar, and bring back ghee,’ suddenly 
announced Mohan’s father, coming out of the 
house with a large basket in his hand. He stooped 
down, as he placed the basket in front of a pile of 
chaff, spread a dirty grey sheet in it, and proceeded 
to fill it with the chaff. This done, Mohan halted 
the oxen while he helped to lift the basket on his 


ONLY A GIRL 81 


father’s head. The old man swung off with much 
agility for a man of his age; and, since he had been 
saying for two years now that he could not stand 
head-load carrying, Mohan was puzzled. 

Just then his mother, followed by his wife, came 
out of the house, carrying the water jars. Mohan 
ran to the door and bade his wife step back inside. 

“What made father so suddenly decide to go to 
town?” he asked, excitedly. 

“He was holding some conversation with your 
mother,” the wife replied, ‘‘which I did not hear. 
Then he took his bamboo and pulled a sheet down 
that had been drying on the edge of the roof. I 
heard him muttering to himself, ‘I will teach that 
Padre a lesson.’ ” 

“Hurry after mother, and fill your jars as 
quickly as possible,” bade Mohan. Then he went 
on into the house, pulled down another sheet from 
the roof, wound it around his head, making a large 
turban to protect him from the sun. He returned 
to his oxen and started them on their endless path, 
round and round. 

He watched the women at the well each time 
that he came around, hoping his wife’s turn to 
draw her water would soon arrive. At last he saw 
her step up on the well curb, tie her black iron 
kettle-shaped bucket to the rope and let it slip 
down into the well, from over the big pulley—a 
wheel which turned on a thin bamboo, fastened at 
either end into a brick pillar on the sides of the 


82 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


well. She walked backward a couple of steps from 
the well’s mouth, pulled up and down on the rope 
until the bucket had turned over and was full, then 
with long, rhythmic, swinging pulls brought the 
bucket up. Now she strode forward; resting one 
hand on the bamboo pole, she leaned over the well, 
seized the bucket, pulled it to the empty water 
jars and filled two of them. The mother-in-law 
carried away the full jars while the girl filled the 
others. She was perfectly fearless in all her move- 
ments, even with her bare feet on the wet slippery 
well curb, though she knew only too well of several 
women who had slipped and fallen in as they drew 
their water. Once the bamboo pole itself had 
given way under a woman’s weight. 

When all the jars were full and had been carried 
off, the wife again filled the bucket, untied the rope 
and carried it, full, back to the house. Much 
water was required for the family these hot days. 

While Mohan and the oxen rested, his eldest 
son, Sundar, was turning over the straw on the 
threshing-floor. When she came up, as Mohan 
saw, his wife cast a proud and loving glance at 
the eleven-year-old, manly boy who was doing 
his best. 

By ten o’clock, the oxen being tired and hot, 
Mohan led them to the well, drew water for them 
and put them in one end of the courtyard of his 
own home. He then went to the little brick plat- 
form in the courtyard, laid aside his turban and, 


ONLY A GIRL 83 


picking up a small brass jar, stooped and dipped 
it into a water-jar, to fill it. Then he poured the 
water from it on his head and shoulders. He had 
not removed his loin-cloth; when it became well 
wet, and he was as clean as he could be with clear 
water and no soap, he loosened one end of the 
cloth, wrung it and proceeded to wipe off some of 
the water. His mother brought a dry loin-cloth, 
which he took, wrapped it around his waist over 
the wet one and, having tied it, loosened the wet 
one and dropped it to the ground. He then pro- 
ceeded to drape the four and a half yards of the 
dry garment about the middle part of his body. 
In such a way as this both Indian men and women 
contrive to take daily baths in public without 
shocking anyone. 

‘“Mother, is the food ready?” he called. “I want 
to go.” 

The mother looked toward his wife, who was 
stooping over the fire busily stirring the yellow 
lentil soup. By the fire was a pile of dark brown, 
round and thick, flat and heavy biscuits, each eight 
inches in diameter. With anxiety in her own heart, 
the wife had seen that her husband, too, was 
anxious, and so had hastened the cooking, pre- 
paring the meal nearly an hour sooner than usual. 

Mohan and his sons ate their food. He ex- 
plained to his mother that he felt concerned about 
his father, out in such heat and carrying a head- 
load when he was not used to it. He thought that 


84: THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


he himself had better take a load to town and look 
him up. 

She agreed this was wise, and helped him to fill 
his basket and put it on his head. 

Mohan and Mango. 

Mohan reached the mission bungalow just as 
the missionary drove in from the railway station. 

“Buy some chaff for your cow, sir?” called 
Mohan, as the missionary got out of his trap. 

“What do you want for it, and how much have 
you?” 

An agreement was reached and the sale made. 
After Mohan had carried the basket into the cow- 
shed and emptied it, he returned to the veranda of 
the bungalow for his money. Hardly had the mis- 
sionary paid Mohan and arranged for him to bring 
more at the same price, than there were wild shouts 
on the road. In an instant the Padre came into 
the compound, running ahead of a mob of men and 
boys who were hurling stones at him. 

Mohan caught the whole situation at once. 
Springing off the veranda, he ran back to the 
Padre’s house and, without stopping to call, he 
rushed in, closing the door and bolting it. He 
had already seen the Padre’s wife and adopted 
daughter sitting in the veranda. As quickly 
“as he could, he made them understand that a 
mob was coming, and that they must lock them- 
selves in. 

The Padre’s wife could not believe him. She 


ONLY A GIRL 85 


was so slow to move that the shouts and stones of 
the mob were already coming into their courtyard 
before the three rushed to a recently rebuilt corner 
room having a flat concrete roof. Once inside, he 
closed the door. Mohan knew that it would be 
sure death for him to be caught there, and he could 
do no more alone; so, springing to the low tiled 
roof which a mango tree overhung, he climbed 
into the branches and was soon hidden from 
sight, high up among the leaves. 

Here he watched the crowd crash down the door 
leading to the courtyard and rush in, looking 
hither and thither, overturning the food in the 
kitchen, breaking the few china dishes the Padre 
rejoiced in, looting the store-room, and battering 
hard on the door to the room in which the woman 
and girl were hiding. 

Their blows crashed menacingly on the portal. 
Indeed, at last they succeeded in breaking in the 
door. He could hear the women scream. But at 
that instant six mounted police galloped up, fol- 
lowed by the Collector. 

The police jumped off of their horses and ran 
into the courtyard, knocking at men and boys 
with their clubs as they went, until they reached 
the women. With a wild growl, the crowd now 
rushed at the policemen with their long bamboo 
sticks. Then all the police en masse charged the 
crowd. But the angered mob stood its ground and 
howled. 


86 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


In the crisis the Collector shouted above the up- 
roar: “If you men do not fall back, I will give the 
order to shoot.” 

Just then four more police arrived. Leaping 
out of their cart, they joined the Collector. To- 
gether they tried to work their way through the 
crowd in the courtyard to the other policemen. 
They had partly succeeded when the crowd, with 
one frenzied onset, rushed the other police and 
the door. The women screamed as the police fell 
back, and the mob pressed in. 

The peril was more than even the quiet, self- 
possessed little Englishman could stand. “Fire!” 
he shouted. He and two policemen fired into the 
air, but the other two fired straight. Men fell. 

Some of the policemen who were being pressed 
heard the shots though they had not heard the 
order. Pulling out their pistols, they too fired. 
The mob, caught on two sides, broke and fied, 
leaving four men dead. One policeman was un- 
conscious, another was badly hurt, and three 
others were bruised or bleeding. 

Mohan, coming down from the tree, discovered 
that one of the men lying on the ground was his 
father. But he had forgotten his own danger. 
Instantly he was seized by two policemen, who 
were handling him roughly when Lillavatti 
rushed up. 

“Do not hurt him!” she cried. “He is a 
servant.” 


scien 4. yne reel 


ONLY A GIRL 87 


Before she could explain more, the police re- 
leased him, and at once he seized the head and 
shoulders of his dead father and dragged him out 
of the courtyard and away. He got a low-caste 
man to help him carry his father’s body home. 

Later Mohan learned how it happened that help 
had come so promptly. Having unharnessed the 
missionary’s horse, the sais was leading him up 
and down, to cool him off gently before giving the 
hot animal a drink, when the mob had suddenly 
appeared. Leading the horse behind the servants’ 
houses, the sais sprang on its back and rode as fast 
as he could to the Collector’s bungalow. 

When the mob had withdrawn, the Collector 
and two policemen took the Padre Memsahib and 
Lillavatti to the missionary bungalow, where they 
found the Padre, bruised and exhausted from the 
stones and from the fastest run that he ever 
had made. 

“I had just finished teaching that small group 
of boys which I have regularly up in the low-caste 
quarters of the town,” he explained, “when a group 
of men came up to me and began telling me that 
I was ruining all the low-caste people around. 
After a bit they veered round to ask: ‘When will 
you get that girl you have in your home married?’ 
adding: ‘You can’t keep a big girl like that un- 
married, or you will soon make all the women 
folks think that that is the proper way to treat 
girls.’ I tried to argue with them, but suddenly 


88 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


one impudent fellow struck me, then they all 
started at me. In their rush they lost track of 
me, and I slipped out of my coat that they were 
holding, dodged under and got into an alley, and 
started away; but they were soon after me, 
throwing stones at me, and I had to run for 
my life.” 

“Well, you see,” broke in the Collector, ‘at this 
time of year when the threshing is nearly done, the 
people have little to think about, the heat excites 
them, and riots begin. I was not greatly surprised 
when that servant rode up and banged on my door. 
The watchman, excited, gave the order to the 
policemen on the compound and ordered my own 
horse, and we were soon here. Good that we were, 
or things might have been more serious. As it is, 
four rioters are dead and possibly one policeman, 
besides several hurt. All this will cause the 
government to investigate. But meanwhile, get 
this man, with his wife and daughter, off on the 
first train; and don’t bring them back without 
permission.” 

“My Own Daughter.” 

Six years later Lillavatti, having finished school, 
came with her mother to visit the missionary. A 
tentative engagement had been made between the 
young assistant doctor who was then working in 
the mission hospital and Lillavatti, pending their 
having an opportunity to get acquainted. 

The young man in question, Dr. Masih Charan, 


ONLY A GIRL 89 


had been educated in the mission college in Alla- 
habad, then graduated in medicine at Lucknow, 
from the Government Medical School. While he 
had not had enough experience to make him de- 
pendable in a medical way, he had a winning smile 
and an attractive personality. Besides, he was 
larger physically than most Indians—a character- 
istic which, in addition to his other qualities, gave 
his people unusual confidence in him. 

When the time came that the doctor felt that 
he was succeeding, and when he was earning a 
good salary, he went to the missionary lady for her 
help in choosing a wife. Mrs. Missionary had had 
such an appeal made to her on former occasions. 
She knew the young doctor’s parents had had little 
education or experience among educated people 
and so, unlike Hindu parents, were not confident 
that they could choose the right wife for their 
wonderful son. Yet the Hindu custom of having 
an elder person choose one’s helpmate persists 
among the Christians. So Dr. Masih Charan was 
glad that the missionary lady was willing to help. 
She had immediately remembered sweet, clever 
Lillavatti. Unlike Hindus, the parties to a Chris- 
tian marriage meet, and get somewhat acquainted, 
before the final decision. But both Lillavatti and 
Masih Charan confided to Mrs. Missionary after 
the very first meeting that they were not only 
satisfied but pleased with her arrangement for 
them. 


90 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


During the six years thousands of low-caste 
people and a few from among the higher castes 
had been baptized. There was now a good church 
on the mission compound. Here also were a dis- 
pensary building and some small buildings—a 
ward for patients, quarters for nurses and the 
home of the assistant doctor. There was, too, a 
new bungalow, in which lived the American mis- 
sionary doctor and his wife. 

The day appointed for the wedding came bright 
and clear, as are most days in India. The mis- 
sionary and some Indian ladies very prettily deco- 
rated the church with potted plants, crotons, palms 
and ferns and festoons of the feathery white and 
pink flowering bridal wreath vine. Not only were 
all the seats filled, but on the floor sat many of 
the poorer people. 

A missionary wife played the wedding march on 
the organ. as Lillavatti and Dr. Masih Charan 
walked up the aisle together and stood before the 
missionary and before the bride’s own adopted 
father, who had come from his district to assist 
at the wedding. 

When, as man and wife, they returned up the 
aisle, Lillavatti recognized Mohan standing near 
the door. By him stood his wife, tears in her eyes. 

“There is the man who warned us of the mob 
that awful day,” whispered Lillavatti to her new 
husband. ‘Let me speak to him and his lovely 
wife.” 


ONLY A GIRL 91 


“Why, that is Mohan, whom I saw once in the 
hospital when his small daughter Mohani was a 
patient there for a time,” exclaimed Dr. Masih 
Charan. 

Lillavatti had hold of the arm of the little 
woman who, unknown to Lillavatti, was her own 
mother, and was leading her with them out of the 
church door, while the doctor beckoned to Mohan 
to follow. 

Once outside, Lillavatti seized a hand of each, 
exclaiming: “I am going to live here at the hos- 
pital. Please do come to see me in a few days.” 

The bride and groom stepped into a carriage 
and were driven off. Mohan and his wife walked 
away. 

From behind him Mohan heard a sob. Half 
turning, by a low mutter he gave his wife permis- 
sion to speak. 

“Oh, she is my own daughter!” cried the woman. 
“Would that my other daughter, Mohani, could 
have become like that. Would that she need not 
be married for awhile longer. She is not ready 
for marriage yet; she has new ideas, after those 
months in the hospital, that the Jesus religion is 
best; it treats women right.” 

“Surely their Jesus must indeed be the true 
God,” assented Mohan thoughtfully. ‘At any 
rate, tomorrow I talk to the Padre.” 





Til 


TAINTED 


rt 
Aree 
is) 


ie iy 





IV 
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 


HULMONI came to the asylum in her leper 
Pp mother’s arms. Several weeks elapsed be- 
fore I suggested that she go to the home 
for untainted children. At the very thought the 
poor mother was terrified. 
Mother Love. 

“Memsahib! Not yet!” the mother of Phul- 
moni pleaded. “She is just a baby.” 

“But, bibi” (such is the honour title for “wife’”’), 
“vou would not like that lovely baby to become a 
leper, such as you are, would you?” 

“Memsahib, the will of God,” and she bowed in 
fatalistic submission. 

“Why, bibi,” I expostulated, “it cannot be the 
will of God that this baby should be kept in the 
presence of great peril. If we truly love our 
babies, we will put them in a safe place, even 
though that be far away from us.” 

She said nothing, but I waited. 

“Memsahib,” at last. ‘Let me keep her one 
more week!” 

At the end of the week I went to her again. 
“Now, bibi, Phulmoni is going to the home to 


95 


96 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


which all the other leper women have sent their 
babies.” 

Frightened, she fell back, exclaiming: “O Mem- 
sahib! That week isn’t up already!” 

When I had assured her that the time had in- 
deed come, again she stood silent, and again I 
waited. 

‘“Memsahib, just three days more,” came the 
plea. Again I consented. At the end of three 
days, once more she was astonished to learn that 
the time of respite was gone. 

“Oh, one day more, Memsahib!”’ 

At the end of one day I went toward the 
mother, arms outstretched to take the child. 
Earnestly, pleadingly, she looked into my eyes. 
Though I smiled, I firmly took hold of the 
child. 

With one heart-broken cry, she pushed Phul- 
moni into my arms, then ran swiftly away, so that 
she might not hear her baby cry. 

That was long ago. Today Phulmoni is a big 
girl Very sweet and attractive she is. Her 
mother looks at her with pride when she comes 
to the service at the Leper Asylum church on 
Sunday. 

Mother Flight. 

Sukde was only six months old when she, too, 
in her mother’s arms, came to the asylum. She 
was a plump and really attractive baby. But 
before she was two years old she began to lose 


MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 97 


weight. The mother meanwhile had become a 
Christian. 

When I asked her to give up Sukde she re- 
sponded: “Yes, Memsahib. I know I must give 
her up. But I would like to have her baptized, 
and be baptized myself, before I hand her over 
to you.” 

The next Sunday the double baptism was held. 
After the service the mother handed her child to 
me, big tears in her own eyes. 

The following Sunday, during the service, I 
heard a sob. Sukde was holding out her arms 
pleadingly to her mother, who sat far down in the 
congregation, among all the other women; Sukde 
was seated near me, among the other children, in 
the front of the church. 

Taking the baby into my arms, I held her in 
my lap, letting her play quietly and with interest 
with some flowers which I had with me. 

At the close of the service the mother came near. 
‘How has the child been?” she inquired. — 

I told her that during the week the little girl 
had fretted a little, but had not lost much appetite, 
nor had she cried, until that moment today when 
she saw her mother. 

Placing the child on the floor, I led her out of 
the church; she marched in line with the other 
children. Another little girl, who also had re- 
cently been taken from her mother, began to 
cry, so I took her hand. When she refused to 


98 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


come to me, I let go of Sukde’s hand—only for 
an instant—in order to take the other child into 
my arms. 

Some one screamed. ‘‘Memsahib, Memsahib! 
Catch my child, save my child!” I heard. Baby 
Sukde was running after her mother, down the 
path at the side of the church building. 

Poor leper woman though she was, having only 
stumps of flesh and bone for feet, the mother fled 
determinedly away from her own child. Only 
when I had caught the flying Sukde, and had saved 
her from pollution, did the loving leper mother 
come to a relieved and panting halt. 

No longer is Sukde’s mother with us. Her dis- 
ease had its way with her, and now she is among 
that “crowd of witnesses” which compasses us 
about. Surely there she is, with full reason, 
greatly proud of the Sukde of today, a wholesome 
and lovely Christian young woman. 

Contrast. 

When we opened the first home for untainted 
children, almost twenty years ago, both boys and 
girls were received into it. Among them were 
Bidesi and Bhudni. Bidesi has been ambitious, 
hard-working and dependable. He now has full 
charge of the store-room for the engineering de- 
partment in the Agricultural Institute, and the 
store-room is almost a model of systematic 
neatness. 

Bhudni was an unusually bright child and, as 


MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 99 


she grew older, became a sweet and pretty girl. 
She helped me in the dispensary for two years 
or so—in the mornings, before school hours. 
Later I sent her to a hospital to obtain a nurse’s 
training. 

She had been home for a month’s vacation, at 
the end of her second year, when she came to me 
one day, and announced: ‘‘Memsahib, I don’t want 
to go back for my third year.” 

Protesting, I told her of how much essential 
help in her third year she would miss if she did 
not return. She would not be able to give the 
help in the villages that was needed without that 
third year’s training, I warned her. 

“But I am engaged to marry,” she shyly ad- 
mitted. “And I do know lots about nursing 
even now.” 

I called Bidesi, whom she was to marry. We 
three talked the subject over, and in the end she 
was persuaded to go back. 

During the year I visited her at Delhi. At the 
time of my call she had just finished bandaging a 
woman who was afflicted with an abscess, and at 
this moment she had in her arms a dirty baby, to 
whom she was about to give a bath. 

“Bhudni,” I asked, ‘‘are you not glad now that 
you came back?” 

“Ves, indeed,” she answered, in high spirits. 
“T love my work!” 

Early in the morning of the day after Bhudni’s 


100 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


return, at the end of her third year, she was at 
my bungalow. 

After our greetings she exclaimed: “Look, Mem- 
sahib! See my diploma.” 

I was as proud as she. She was the first one 
of my girls to receive a nurse’s diploma, and I 
told her so. 

We began to talk about our plans for work in 
the villages for the women. After a few moments, 
hanging her head in true Indian bashfulness, she 
asked: ‘““Memsahib, when can we be married?” 

“Ves, Bhudni,” I assented. “You may be mar- 
ried as soon as you like. But,” I added, with some 
fearfulness, “you will do this work in the villages 
after you are married?” 

“Oh, yes, Memsahib. But I do want to be 
married soon,” she insisted. 

“When, Bhudni?” 

Again hanging her head, she said: “Well, Bidesi 
is waiting, just around the corner!” 

From the veranda I called Bidesi from “just 
around the corner.” 

He, too, was abashed; but, unlike most Indians, 
he went right to the point: “Memsahib, we want 
to be married.” 

“Oh, I know you do, Bidesi,” I replied. “But 
when shall it be?” 

With alacrity, “Tomorrow,” he answered. 

Bhudni looked up quickly. “Oh, I told you not 
to say that, Bidesi!” she chided. 


MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 101 


“Well, then, day after tomorrow,” he conceded. 

Bhudni answered never a word, but hung her 
head, smiling. 

“Tf that is what you want, we will have the 
wedding on the day after tomorrow,” at length 
was the decision. “Yet I am afraid that most 
of the trousseau will have to be prepared after- 
ward.” Both, smiling, shyly nodded their heads in 
agreement. 

Two other missionary wives helped in the sew- 
ing preparations and dressed the bride, while I 
prepared to take her to the church. 

_ When, finally, I saw Bhudni dressed in a soft 
white sari edged with silver braid, draped very 
gracefully, with some orange blossoms gathered 
on the mission farm, on her head above the sazi, 
and a beautiful bunch of white chrysanthemums in 
her hands, I felt that I had never seen a prettier 
bride. 

She rode with me in the carriage to the asylum. 
At the door of the church Bidesi met the bride. 
They marched up the aisle together, while I dashed 
around to the side door, and slipped into my usual 
seat at the front. 

But Bhudni’s mother, I saw with concern, was 
not there, on the floor, among the other leper 
women. I knew that she was blind. Had every 
one forgotten to tell her? I whispered to the 
pastor a request that he wait a minute, then sent 
a man to call her. 


102 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


“Bhudni’s mother refuses to come to the wed- 
ding,” was the messenger’s surprising report on his 
return. ‘She does not like the man Bhudni is 
marrying.” 

They had been engaged three years, and Bhudni 
was satisfied. We went on with the wedding. 

After the service I suggested to Bhudni, “‘Let us 
go see your mother.” She agreed, and we walked 
across the asylum to her mother’s room in the 
women’s quarters. 

Never before, in a long experience of people and 
life, had I beheld such a startling contrast between 
a mother and her daughter. The older woman sat 
on her asylum bed, blind, dirty, filled with leprous 
sores. ‘The daughter stood before her, a lovely 
girl bride. 

After the three of us had spoken a few words 
together and the bride and I had retired, I turned 
impulsively to the girl. “Oh, Bhudni!” I cried. 
“What if your mother had not brought you to us 
nineteen years ago! Yes, and what if God had 
not given us a home in which to care for you!” 

Reverently, Bhudni bowed her head. “Yes, 
Memsahib. Every day do I thank God for that 
home away from my leprous mother and for the 
years which He let me spend there.” 
Chandervatit. ; 

Psychologists tell us, these days, that criminal 
tendencies are inherited. They point to long lists 
of criminals descended from one criminal couple. 


MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 103 


But they reckon without Christ. Chandervatti was 
the child of a criminal, but she belonged to the 
Indian fold of the Good Shepherd. 

Chandervatti came to us with her father, Rev. 
R. R. Pitumber, who, after fifteen years as a 
preacher to his own people in the villages of 
Northern India, entered the leper asylum at Alla- 
habad. That was many years ago. The mis- 
sionary in charge of Pitumber’s district had been 
accustomed to dispense much helpful medicine to 
the people of the region, but how could he have 
considered the swellings on the face of this valu- 
able worker, or suspected that the swollen hands 
and feet, also, indicated leprosy? ‘Then, however, 
Pitumber’s beautiful little wife began to be af- 
flicted, and the dread secret was out. Willingly 
they travelled fifty miles to the nearest medical 
missionary, who ordered them into the leper 
asylum. 

Chandervatti’s mother was a pretty woman, with 
big black eyes and long curling eyelashes. Her 
hair was soft, thick and wavy; her nose was 
straight and delicate in line, and her red, sweet 
mouth was set off by her olive skin. But her 
mouth had a trace of the sensuous. 

There were then two children. The older one, 
a boy, had not been with us long until we found 
that he, too, displayed a spot of leprosy. The 
other, Chandervatti, was then three years old—an 
exact duplicate of her mother in looks and dis- 


104 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


position, except for the sweet baby expression and 
her dainty soft skin. When she was spoken to, 
the same winsome, joyous smile would spread 
over her face that her mother unconsciously wore 
—until, as she remembered their sorrow, the 
mother quickly changed hers to a smile of sadness. 
A baby boy was born not many months after they 
came to the asylum. 

The two older children went to the home for 
untainted children. But when the son’s disease 
was discovered he went back to the asylum and 
to his parents. Surely it was a mercy when, a few 
months later, he fell a prey to pneumonia and 
died; at that time there was no treatment for lep- 
rosy. Yet the mother was heart-broken; pathet- 
ically she mourned for her firstborn. 

Chandervatti soon proved a problem. Mis- 
chievously she would do very naughty things, 
smiling sweetly all the time. She was cruel to 
other children, but would assure them: ‘That did 
not hurt.”” Whenever I had any dealings with her 
I used all my kindergarten training and experi- 
ence, as well as my motherhood experiences, to 
solve the problem she presented. 

When she had grown to be fifteen years old she 
had become a lovely and attractive girl. One day 
I told her that she might help me in the dispen- 
sary, together with my daughter and Bhudni. She 
was delighted, and soon proved to have ability as 
a nurse. She was devoted to my daughter; daily, 


MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 105 


after all the patients had left, Chandervatti and 
Gertrude would walk or sit, playing or sewing and 
talking. 

On one occasion, when I was at the asylum, Mr. 
Pitumber called me aside. ‘Memsahib,” he ap- 
pealed to me, “when I am gone, do not let my wife 
have Chandervatti; my wife has become a bad 
woman. 

A question or two from me brought the tears to 
his eyes. ‘While I still live,” he said, brokenly, 
“T can somewhat control her, but what will she do 
after I am gone? I do not want her to have any 
authority over Chandervatti.” 

Even before he died, however, but while he was 
feeble and helpless, the wife ran away. She went 
in company with another man, who also was a 
leper. We heard of her in the Calcutta bazaar 
later; she was now both a beggar and a thief. 

When we came home on a furlough, wishing to 
have Chandervatti where she could learn to be an 
efficient nurse—and also where her mother would 
not be likely to find her—TI sent the girl to a mis- 
sion hospital, there to receive a nurse’s training. 
After our return to India, one day a letter came 
from the American missionary nurse in whose care 
I had left Chandervatti. The message included 
these words: 

“T am sorry to have to tell you that Chander- 
vatti is very ill. She has a tubercular bone. It 
was operated on a short time ago, but it does not 


106 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


heal; I fear she is growing worse. I should like 
to keep her here and do all I can for her, but ever 
since she knew you were coming she has patiently 
waited to ‘go home’ to Allahabad.- She has been 
wonderfully fine in her work, and even after she 
herself was sick, many times she has sung to, 
prayed for or talked to women more ill than she.” 

Chandervatti came home. So sweet and patient 
was she that no one minded the extra care which 
her illness made necessary. 

One day a man came to the gate of the court- 
yard of the home selling glass bangles, such as the 
Indian women love to wear. Chandervatti, lying 
in the veranda, asked to be allowed to see his 
stock. She bought several bangles and _ slipped 
them on her arms and admired them, talking about 
their lovely colours. But after a few moments she 
remarked: “Oh, dear; they are not pretty on such 
thin arms as mine are now. I will buy more when 
I am well.” Then she gave them all away to the 
other girls. 

As if a happy thought had occurred to her, after 
a while she asked to have her trunk brought and 
its contents taken out. All her possessions she 
distributed to the girls. 

When they protested, she remarked cheerfully: 
“Oh, I shall get some nice new clothes, even pret- 
tier than those—when I am well.” 

That evening, when the pastor (the husband of 
the matron) came in, Chandervatti called him and 


MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 107 


said: ‘Padre, when you have prayers today, please 
read this passage” (pointing to a favourite) ‘and 
sing my favourite song’ (naming it) “and let 
me pray.” 

She smiled, and was so cheerful generally, that 
the Padre was not alarmed. After supper, when 
the girls had gathered for prayers, the exercises 
were conducted as she had requested. Her prayer, 
though simple, was so sweet and Christlike in 
spirit that all the girls were deeply impressed. 

“Good night,” was said to all the girls, and they 
went upstairs to their open-air sleeping room, and 
prepared for bed. 

Bhudni stopped by Ghanderenct at the later S 
request, and the pastor sat near in the courtyard. 
The sick girl closed her eyes, as if going to sleep. 
Suddenly, as the girls and Bhudni reported it 
later, a very bright light appeared over the corner 
of the courtyard, moved swiftly to Chandervatti’s 
bed, and then was gone. Upstairs the girls, almost 
in one voice, said: “It lightened.” But it was a 
beautiful starry night; not a cloud was to be seen. 

The pastor, having seen the light, stepped to 
Chandervatti’s bed. She had gone to her Father 
in Heaven. 

They sent for me. When I came—it was at 
once—I found all the girls downstairs, and in the 
courtyard. They greeted me with the an- 
nouncement: ‘OQ Memsahib, the angels came for 
Chandervatti!” 


108 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


All loved Chandervatti, yet no one cried; the 
angels had taken her; the children had seen the 
angels’ light. 

Can one question it? Chandervatti, daughter 
of a leper father, daughter of a leper mother who 
was also a beggar and a_ thief—Chandervatti 
nevertheless had been taken by the angels. For, | 
in some way or other, ‘‘He shall gather the lambs 
into His arms, and carry them in His bosom.” 


V 


THE MIRACLES 


VEN the hot, dusty road seemed to be 
fainting from lack of water as three 


people—a man, followed by two small 
girls—walked wearily along. ‘There, that is a 
foreign looking building. That must be the mis- 
sion leper asylum at last,” Kampta muttered, 
more to himself than to his companions. The 
girls stopped and stared. 
One Shot. 

‘What place is this?” called Kampta to a man 
loafing on the steps of the building. There was 
something written on the building, but Kampta 
could not read well enough to make it out. 

“This is the hospital of the leper asylum,” re- 
plied the man. Pointing in among the trees, gar- 
dens and shrubbery, he continued: “And these are 
the asylum barracks.” 

‘Sure enough,” ejaculated Kampta as he slowly 
approached the man. “I do see several foreign 
buildings—there and there.” By “foreign” he 
meant simply that the structures were made of 
good brick and mortar, as compared with the mud 
of Indian village huts. 


109 


110 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


The man on the steps got up, at the same time 
carefully inspecting Kampta. ‘You yourself are 
a leper,” he remarked. bee 

Sitting down on the steps, Kampta tacitly but 
eloquently replied. He held up an_ ulcerous, 
bleeding foot. 

“Will you stay here?” asked the hospital or- 
derly, turning and addressing the girls. 

Frightened, they crept behind their father. For 
them he replied: “They are my children; they 
have no mother. Shanti here is eleven years old, 
and should already be married. Jantri is nine, 
and should be married soon. But with hands like 
mine, how could I earn enough money to prepare 
for two weddings in the family?” 

“Very well,” the orderly stated. ““The Memsa- 
hib will take good care of them. Come around 
here, and I’ll bandage‘up your feet. They will 
soon heal. Few of us keep any ulcers here.” He 
led the way to a place beside the hospital where 
such sores are washed and dressed—on a little 
platform which all day is disinfected by the trop- 
ical sunshine. 

Kampta limped along, the girls following. 

“Vou are not a leper; are you?” he rather af- 
firmed than inquired. 

The orderly laughed. He was pleased that he 
had so far recovered that another leper did not 
notice his defects. 

“Well, I suppose I’m not much of one now; I 


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THE MIRACLES 111 


have been taking treatment for two years. But I 
never was so bad as you are,’ admitted the 
orderly. 

Thus it was that when I went to the asylum 
next day I found the two little girls awaiting me. 
The assistant doctor and I went over them care- 
fully, and were happy to find no signs of the dis- 
ease. The two, never before having seen a 
woman with a white face, were frightened when I 
bade them get up in the carriage by my side. Not 
only did my ghastly face frighten them; they 
cried, of course, at leaving their father. But they 
obeyed. On the ride to the leper home Shanti 
was very gently attentive to little Jantri, who re- 
sponded with affection. 

At the home they were given baths, and their 
hair was washed and combed; then they were 
dressed in some pretty bright red gingham dresses, 
sent out by a missionary society in the United 
States. How pleased they were to see each other 
looking sweeter and cleaner than they had ever 
before been in all their lives! 

Shanti and Jantri entered willingly into the life 
of the school and tried hard to learn. On Sundays 
all the children go to the leper asylum church, 
where they sit either on benches or on the edge of 
the platform, at the front of the church, so that 
their afflicted parents, though necessarily sepa- 
rated from them, may feast their eyes on them 
during the service. On the first Sunday Shanti 


112 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


sang with the girls the hymn which they had been 
learning all the week, while Jantri, looking up 
wistfully into her sister’s face, joined in when she 
could. The father, on the floor of the church 
among the other leper men, smiled contentedly as 
he watched his daughters. 

‘It is customary, at the close of the service, when 
the remainder of the congregation has gone out, 
for the parents to arrange themselves around the 
walls of the room, while the children draw near | 
and speak with them a few minutes. Kampta 
was so embarrassed when he found himself con- 
fronted by two such nice looking, well-dressed 
girls that he actually could find nothing to say 
to them. | 

Early in December, when Dr. Forman and I 
were inspecting all the girls in the home, looking 
for physical deficiencies, the doctor suddenly 
pointed out a spot on Shanti’s cheek. Immedi- 
ately, however, he allayed my fears by saying: “It 
looks more like an oriental skin disease than lep- 
rosy.” But two weeks later, when I told him that 
Shanti’s spot had not responded to the usual treat- 
ment for skin trouble, he directed me: “Put your 
hand over her eyes.” 

While I blindfolded her he stuck a needle into 
the spot. Shanti did not even quiver; she had not 
felt it. It was a spot of anesthetic leprosy. 

Poor Shanti was heartbroken by the news. 
“Not like my father!” she cried. 


THE MIRACLES 113 


“No, Shanti; not like your father yet. We 
hope you never will be so bad as he is. See, you 
are to have some medicine to make you better. 
But you must go and stay with your father at the 
asylum, you know, until you are better.” 

At these words her grief could not be controlled. 

“Oh, if only,” she sobbed, “if only I could stay 
here until after the ‘Big Day!’” (as the children 
call Christmas). “The other girls tell me they get 
dolls—and I never had a doll!” 

She cheered up a little when I promised her 
that she should have not only a doll but a new 
dress and other gifts, besides a fine Christmas 
dinner with her father, and also fruit and candy. 

The most precious doll in my possession for 
giving to the children that Christmas was one 
which had been dressed and sent to me by my own 
daughter in far-away America. This doll was given 
to Shanti. As she took it in her arms, cuddling it 
to herself while she looked maternally down upon 
it, her face was a beautiful picture. Looking up 
for a second, she asked: “Oh, is this mine? May 
I keep her for always?” 

“Yes, Shanti; at any rate, for as long as you 
take good care of her.” 

‘She is the very loveliest doll in all the world!” 
asserted Shanti, hugging her yet the tighter. 

On this, her first Christmas day, Shanti seemed 
to forget all her troubles in the joy of her presents 
and of the good Christmas dinner which was 


114 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


served to all inmates of the leper asylum. And 
yet the little girl found time to do kindly service 
for others, too. I saw her. bringing water for a 
poor leper woman who had no fingers, and so could 
not carry her own water-jar. She also made up her 
father’s bed, and cleaned his room. And doubtless 
did many other kind deeds, which I did not see. 

Besides Shanti, at this time-there were thirteen 
other leper children in the asylum. It seemed a 
good occasion for opening a home of their own 
for them, in which they could have regular and 
better food and observe regular hours in other 
ways. In the care of a matron there, they would 
have their bedding and clothes kept separate from 
their parents’, and thus would not run risk of 
further infection. 

In the asylum we had a fine Indian woman, 
Mrs. Wilfred, who had been educated in a mission 
school, had married an earnest Christian preacher 
and had three children of her own, all before it was 
found that her husband was a leper. When they 
came to the asylum he had said to me: ‘““Memsahib, 
I feel so terribly bad that I am a leper and now can 
never take any care of my children. Memsahib, 
please take my wife and children away, so that 
none of them will become a leper like me.” 

Mrs. Wilfred accordingly had gone to the home 
for untainted girls of leper parents, where for two 
weeks she was very helpful in the teaching. One 
day, however, without stopping to call or knock 


THE MIRACLES 115 


at our bungalow door, she ran in and through the 
house until she found me. 

Throwing herself at my feet, she cried out: 
“Oh, Memsahib, I cannot stand it longer away 
from my husband! I am so lonely. Please let 
me go back to him—he is sick, and needs me. 
Besides,” she sobbed, “did not I promise before 
God: when I married him that I would stay with 
him in sickness and in health, for better or for 
worse?” 

I knew what. I would have done in such cir- 
cumstances as hers; I could not answer her. 
She went back to the asylum and her husband. 
Later Albert, the eldest boy, was found to have 
a spot of leprosy, and he, too, returned to the 
asylum. 

To Mrs. Wilfred I now spoke of my dream for 
a home for leper children. Inquiring whether she 
would be willing to become the matron of the pro- 
posed home, I asked her: “Do you not want to 
keep Albert away from his father?” 

“May I think it over, and give you my answer 
tomorrow?” she responded. 

Next day she came to me, saying: “Memsahib, 
my husband wants me to become matron of that 
home. But may I cook my husband’s food when 
I cook the children’s, and take it to him every day 
and see that he is all right? As long as he keeps 
fairly well I will stay with the children. Memsa- 
hib,” she went on, “if he should get very sick you 


116 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


will have to make other arrangements for the 
children. But unless he gets worse, I promise you 
now not to touch him.” 

Thus arrangements were completed. The home 
was opened, though with only a small equipment 
of beds, bedding and brass dishes, for these were 
all that we could gather together. 

On the second day after the opening I was called 
in to quiet a disturbance. The parents of the 
children had collected around the home; they 
were demanding that their children be returned 
to them. 

‘We ourselves suffer so much from the treat- 
ment for leprosy that we are not willing our chil- 
dren should be treated,” they said. “Why, some 
of us even have not been able to keep on with the 
treatment.” 

An agreement was reached that no child should 
receive a single injection of the curative etheleaster 
of Chalmoorgra oil until both parents and child 
were willing. 

Dhanesar the Valiant. 

Thus three months went by, the children con- 
tinuing untreated. But one day a young man 
arose in the church service, and said: “I am very 
grateful to God and to all of you who have been 
so kind to me. But now, since I am cured of 
leprosy, unless you have some position to offer 
me, I will go away. I have learned to read while 
here, and have also learned something about the 

















DHANESAR THE VALIANT 





THE MIRACLES 117 


engine and pump on the well. I can work, and I 
ought to find employment. 

This, the spectacular announcement of the first 
cure in our asylum, offered an unexpected oppor- 
tunity to get the parents and children to agree to 
the treatment of the boys and girls. I warned 
the parents, while the children listened, that they 
were deliberately letting their children grow worse. 
The treatment, I told them, once it should be 
begun, would consequently have to be continued 
still longer. The parents sat unmoved. But 
before I had finished my speech Dhanesar, a fine 
manly chap of fourteen, rose quickly to his feet. 

“Please, Memsahib,” he appealed, “may I take 
the injection? I have no father to object.” 

“Good for you!” I exclaimed in triumph. 

Then Albert, the matron’s son, stood Upeniy 
also, would like to take the treatment,” he eagerly 
stated. Then Shanti. “May I too?” she shyly 
queried. One by one (now numbering seventeen), 
the children agreed to take the treatments. And 
not one parent protested. 

On the Tuesday the treatments began. The 
children, not yet knowing of what the treatment 
consisted, stood quietly in line. The doctor, ap- 
proaching them one by one, put the hypodermic 
needle into their arms. Poor children, they looked 
surprised when it hurt. Yet somehow they con- 
trived not to cry. 

When the second Tuesday came I went to the 


118 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


home, in order to go to the hospital with the chil- 
dren. Though they are very fond of their gardens, 
I found none working there. Nor were they doing 
lessons, nor yet their house work. These boys and 
girls were not even on the playgrounds. I called, 
but no one answered. | 

Looking into the dormitory, I found the chil- 
dren all there. They were crouching between the 
beds, or hiding in the corners and the shadows. 

‘What is this?” I demanded. ‘Where is the 
line of children, ready to march up to the hospital 
with me?” 

For a minute there was no reply. Then Dhan- 
esar stood up. 

“Memsahib,” he demanded in turn, “did you not 
know that that needle was going to hurt us?” 

“Yes, Dhanesar, I knew,” I had to acknowledge. 
“But it is necessary for you to endure that little 
hurt, if you are hoping to get over being lepers.” 

“But did you not know,” he insisted, “that we 
would get headache and fever after it? Why, we 
were miserable all the next day!”’ 

“But, Dhanesar, there will be less fever and less 
headache each week, as time goes on and as you 
get better.” 

There was silence. I waited; they waited. 

Suddenly a little figure dashed toward the door. 
Standing there, straight and stalwart, he called 
aloud: “I am standing in line!” 

It was Dhanesar the valiant. 


THE MIRACLES 119 


Almost at once Albert ran up and stood beside 
him, shouting: “I, too, am in line.” 

Then Shanti, and Amoos, then all the others— 
and the line was.complete. Soon they all were 
marching swiftly to the hospital. 

One day I caught sight of Amoos, while he 
waited his turn for the treatment, shivering with 
a nervous chill. But Amoos neither whimpered 
nor cried. 

After the children had been receiving the treat- 
ment for an entire year the distinguished physician 
who was the specialist in leprosy in the School of 
Tropical Diseases at Calcutta came to visit the 
asylum. He went carefully over each child, with 
Dr. Forman, then he announced to me: “Five of 
the children are now free from leprosy. They can 
be sent to the homes for untainted children.” 

Dhanesar and Albert were among this first five. 
Shanti’s spot, while much improved, was still there. 

About this time, to our distress, little Jantri was 
taken ill with what proved to be a tubercular spine. 
Together, the doctor and I decided that she should 
be placed with Shanti, in the home for leper chil- 
dren. Kampta, the father, was much disturbed 
when I told him of Jantri’s condition. He had 
shown so much interest in the Bible class that I 
once asked him whether he did not wish to be- 
come a Christian. “I was born a Brahmin, and a 
Brahmin I will die!” he had replied, proudly draw- 
ing himself up to his full height. It was easy to 


120 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


remember that the Brahmins are the highest caste 
of Hindus, and that all the people of the other 
castes look up to them and obey them. 

In spite of good milk, eggs, butter, fresh fruit 
and cod-liver oil, Jantri grew worse. We did all 
that we could for her with a good bed, clean bed- 
ding, pretty night clothing and many toys. But 
she suffered much. One day I found her entirely 
paralysed from her waist down. Not even one 
toe could she move. | 

Weeks went by; she did not improve. 

“Memsahib, what are you doing for Jantri?”’ 
asked Kampta, one Sunday as I came out of 
church. 

“Why, Kampta, have you not seen all that we 
have been doing?” 

“Ves, Memsahib.” He hesitated, then went on: 
“But your Jesus said to pray for the sick.” 

“Ves, of course, Kampta,” I replied, ‘‘and I do 
pray for Jantri every day.” 

“T know that you must be doing so, Memsahib, 
because you love her,” Kampta agreed. “But your 
Bible says also to put hands on the sick and pray. 
Will you not come right now and pray with her?” 

As I went, I wished my faith were stronger. 
And yet when Dr. Forman had told me, only a 
few days before, that I had better prepare to lose 
Jantri, I had felt like replying: “I cannot be- 
lieve you.” 

“Come with us,’ Kampta called to the pastor. 


THE MIRACLES 121 


“The Memsahib is going to pray with Jantri.” He 
called a few other Christians, also, and I sent for 
my husband. 

- It was a delightful little prayer meeting. We 
repeated it the next Sunday, but on the third Sun- 
day we gathered to give thanks. Jantri was bet- 
ter; she gained from that time on. 

Once Dr. Forman asked me: “Have you been 
noticing that Kampta is getting in the habit of 
standing near the home, and calling over to Jantri, 
who is lying on her bed in the veranda: ‘Get up 
and walk, Jantri.’ He keeps her walking, in order 
to show her off, until she gets quite tired. Please 
see to it that she is allowed up only at certain 
times, and for only a few minutes at a time, until 
her little legs are quite strong and sturdy.” 

Some weeks passed by. When I went to the 
home one Sunday morning I found Jantri standing 
in line with the other children, ready to march to 
church. I protested. 

“But, Memsahib, look at my legs,” she cried. 
“They are fat and strong now, just as strong as 
the others. I have not been to church for so many 
months—please let me go!” 

“Tt is quite a walk to church, Jantri,” F ex- 
plained. ‘Then the service lasts about an hour 
and a half, and there is yet the walk back. It is 
too much exertion for you yet. Try walking grad- 
ually this week; then next week you may go, if 
all goes well.” 


122 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


Reluctantly, Jantri went back to her bed. 

In the church that morning the minister was 
preaching. All was still except for the sound of 
his persuasive voice. Suddenly at the side door 
an unexpected sight appeared. There was Kampta, 
carrying small Jantri in his arms. He entered the 
church, walked over to the pastor and put Jantri 
on her feet by the minister’s side. Then, raising 
both hands to heaven, he shouted aloud: “Give 
God the praise!” 

The pastor abandoned his sermon. He prayed, 
giving God the praise. 

When he had finished the prayer of gratitude 
for the child’s recovery, Kampta turned to him 
and said: 

“Now, baptize us all,” beckoning to Shanti to 
join him and Jantri. ‘We want to be Christians. 
I have found out that Jesus is the true God; our 
Hindu gods can do nothing for us such as Jesus 
can do.” 

“OQ God, let me run like the other children!” 
had been Jantri’s prayer when she and we prayed 
together. 

When we were about to leave Allahabad a 
few months ago on our way to America, and I 
went to the home to say good-bye, Jantri ran 
across the yard with the other children to 
meet me. 

“God must have saved me for some good pur- 
pose; I would like to learn to be a Bible woman,” 


THE MIRACLES 123 


Jantri said. She is studying hard at her lessons 
every day. 

Shanti, too, is getting on well in lessons. Her 
leprous spot has almost completely disappeared. 

Kampta, they write me, is trying to persuade all 
his non-Christian friends to believe on Jesus. The 
last time I saw him, indeed, he had a group of 
non-Christian acquaintances about him. He was 
asking, “Why do you believe in idols? They can 
not do anything for you. Worship Jesus, and you 
will be as happy as I am.” 

Without Blemish. 

Dr. Forman one day came to the bungalow. 
Gravely he announced: ‘Mrs. Higginbottom, one 
of your boys, Dhanesar, whom Dr. Muir ordered 
sent to the home for untainted boys as cured, has 
leprosy still. His spot has appeared again.” 

Allowing me only time to express my sorrow, he 
went on: “Will you go talk it over with him, and 
get him back to the home for the leper children? 
He should resume his treatments as soon as 
possible.” 

I found Dhanesar very disconsolate, so I went 
right to the point: “Show me the spot, Dhanesar.” 

He bent down, drew his trousers up over his 
knee and pointed out the spot. Then he lifted his 
face to mine; his eyes were running over with 
tears. 

I did not say another word for a while. The 
dear little fellow who had been so brave in leading 


124 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


all the other children through that year of treat- 
ment now bore the aspect of defeat. 

“Never mind, Dhanesar.” I patted his shoulder 
as at last I spoke. ‘We will go back to the other 
home, and get some more treatments; and soon 
you will be really and fully well.” 

“But maybe it will not go away entirely, after 
all, Memsahib. And, oh, I don’t like to be a 
leper!’”? Dhanesar sobbed. 

“Dhanesar, let us pray. Surely God will hear 
our prayer, and you will be cured.” 

With that, the boy stopped his tears. He got 
up in the carriage with me. While we drove over 
to the asylum he was soon talking cheerfully. 

This was in August; that month, in my letters 
home, I wrote of Dhanesar. At Christmas time 
a small package came from the United States 
marked: “For Dhanesar, in care of Mrs. Higgin- 
bottom, Leper Asylum.” 

On Christmas morning, when the children were 
receiving their gifts, I held up the little parcel in 
front of Dhanesar. 

“Dhanesar?”’ he queried as he read. 

“Ts that not your name?” 

“Yes, but am I that Dhanesar?” 

I nodded affirmatively and bade him open it. 

Inside was a boy scout knife containing a be- 
wildering assortment of small tools. There were 
also other gifts for him. 

When I left for home and our family Christmas 


THE MIRACLES 125 


dinner, Dhanesar seemed perfectly happy and 
busy; he was running a little train around on its 
own tracks. 

On the Sunday morning at church Dhanesar 
smiled at me. But later I was astounded to have 
word from Mrs. Wilfred that he could not be 
found. 

“No, there was no punishment, Memsahib,” re- 
ported Mrs. Wilfred. “He is such a dear little 
father to all the children, you know. When the 
boys quarrel he separates them and settles their 
disputes. If the girls fall down or hurt themselves, 
he comforts them; and if there is anything that I 
need done—bringing water, or coal, or vegetables 
from the garden—he is quick to help, and is always 
so cheerful. I do not know how we can get along 
without him. I cannot think why he should run 
away.” 

Dhanesar’s poor little leper mother I found sit- 
ting on her bed, crying. On seeing me, she lifted 
her fingerless stumps of hands beseechingly: “Oh, 
Memsahib, can you not do something to get my son 
back? Why should I live if I cannot see my son? 
No, he does not know my village; he was only a 
baby in my arms when they drove me out, because 
of my leprosy, and I have never been back. I 
cannot think where he has gone, nor why he has 
gone. Please do something to get him back!” 

What could I do? ‘In this great land of 
India,” at length I began, “there is no knowing 


126 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


where he can be. Shall we ask God to send 
him back?” 

I knelt and prayed, and left the mother smiling 
hopefully. 

He came back in a couple of weeks. ‘“Memsa- 
hib,” he told me, “those boys over at the home 
for untainted boys—they asked you for shoes for 
Christmas, and so I, too, asked for shoes. But on 
Sunday, when those boys came into church, they 
stamped across the front of the church in their new 
shoes, and sat down on the benches up in front, in 
their shoes. And I was a little leper boy, and I 
had to sit on the floor in front of the big lepers, 
where everybody could see me. And I did not 
have shoes. And I was ashamed, and I could not 
stand it any longer. So I ran away. But, Mem- 
sahib, I did not mean to complain! I had a won- 
derful Christmas. You see, it was only about the 
shoes, Memsahib.” 

“Oh, Dhanesar! I did not know you felt that 
way about shoes. Just as soon as I get a little 
money which I can spend just as I want to, you 
shall have shoes.” 

Some weeks later I got a note enclosing a small 
gift from a friend which read: “You know where 
this money is most needed. I am sending it to you 
to use for Jesus’ sake in His work.” 

I bought shoes for Dhanesar. 

Allahabad was hot and dusty the day before we 
left for America. I had worked at packing all 


THE MIRACLES 127 


day, and was still overwhelmed with what I had 
left undone, when friends began to come to say 
good-bye. 

The girls from the home came: “‘Memsahib, we 
have learned a song to sing for you,” and they 
sang: 


“The wind and the waves shall obey His will— 
‘Peace, be still.” 


Then they explained: ‘“‘Memsahib, we shall pray 
all the time for you that God will take care of 
your ship and the ocean, and take you home 
safely, and bring you back safely. Memsahib, 
you will come back soon, won’t you?” 

I suggested that they ask God to give us soon 
what we needed for the agricultural work, so that 
we could indeed go back quickly. 

One of the girls put in: “Why, Memsahib, 
everything belongs to God; He can give it to you. 
And then you will come right back, won’t you?” 

The boys sang: “God will take care of you.” 

When we said good-bye the girls began to cry: 
“What shall we do without our mother?” When 
they went up the road they were yet softly sob- 
bing. With tears of my own on my face, I went 
on packing. 

One of my children came into the house. 
“Mamma, I forget the little boy’s name,” she an- 
nounced, ‘“‘but he is standing ’way out in the field. 


128 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 


He is crying, and says: ‘Please ask your mother to 
come out and speak to me.’ ” 

Dhanesar, the little leper lad, stood without the 
camp, crying. I called to him to come. 

“Are you forgetting, Memsahib,” he began, 
“that Iam a—” 

He stopped, but began again: ‘“Memsahib, are 
you remembering that I come from the leper 
asylum?” 

“Surely, Dhanesar. But come on up; I know 
that you are all right—it is safe for you to comé.” 

When he got to the veranda I took his hand. 
‘‘What was it you wanted to say to me, Dhanesar?” 

Bending down, he uncovered his knee, then said: 
“Look, Memsahib! The spot is gone. It has 
been gone a long time. I am not a leper now; 
really, Iam not. Oh, please, Memsahib, don’t go 
off to America leaving me in the leper asylum! 
Maybe the person to take charge while you are 
gone will not know that I am all right now, and 
maybe he will leave me there still’ a long time— 
and, oh, Memsahib, I don’t like to be a leper.” 

In the morning, on the way to the railway sta- 
tion as we stopped at the asylum to say good-bye 
to the lepers, I ran for a moment into the home. 
There, among the other children, stood Dhanesar, 
looking at me with eagerness. 

Then it fell to me to be the voice of good tidings. 
“Tt is all right, Dhanesar,” quickly I told him. 
“The doctor says you may go to the home for un- 


THE MIRACLES 129 


tainted boys now. He meant to tell me before, 
but forgot. But now, Dhanesar, you may go.” 

The boy ran to me and seized my hand in a 
quick little shake, then said only: “Thank you! 
Good-bye, Memsahib!”” Running to the veranda, 
he picked up a bright red bandana handkerchief 
in which—with abounding faith—he had tied up 
his scout knife and a few other precious posses- 
sions, ready to go to the home. 

In this bundle, I saw, were also his shoes. He 
would not put them on now, and soil them; was 
there not yet before him a walk of a mile and a 
half to the home? No, he would keep them bright 
and shiny until, just before reaching his journey’s 
end, then he would slip them on. 

And then—oh, then he would stamp across the 
veranda of the home with all the noise that he 
liked to make. He would show “those boys” that 
he, too, had shoes—and that he was not a leper. 


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